#im deleting my blog

[formulaforza]

—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it. 

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired. 

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel. 

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing. 

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors  and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t. 

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly. 

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything. 

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you. 

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately. 

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be. 

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page. 

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months. 

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus. 

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive. 

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception. 

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches. 

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years. 

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust. 

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks,  a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit. 

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property. 

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with. 

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile. 

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses. 

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way. 

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door. 

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy. 

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you. 

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be. 

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty. 

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks.  “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly. 

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest. 

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder. 

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special. 

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you. 

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail. 

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard. 

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine. 

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender. 

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in. 

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary. 

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest. 

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you. 

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster. 

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken. 

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small. 

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to. 

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines. 

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it. 

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side. 

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by. 

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day. 

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands. 

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan. 

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support. 

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be. 

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

[intotheelliwoods]

[wonbini]

[dromaeo-sauridae]

like a fucking week after i decide to make cassandria’s flora lean yellow instead of green i boot up elden ring and. oh this place is all yellow trees.

oh no this place is. yellow.

[valen-dreth]

i’m so sorry to tell you this but one of your posts has breached containment and made it onto tiktok

NOOOOOOOOOO

[rhysthescroller]

My friends forced me to play gacha online and i found this in my past characters

Uhhhh idk yeah ermmm so cool

[lifeintheworldtocome]

there was WHO in your top 5....

sidney gish, jack stauber, penelope scott, bo burnham, corpse. in that order

[eumivrse]

ON A TIME CRUNCH !

content having sex under a time constraint! stressful, isn’t it?

featuring gojo, geto, nanami, toji, higuruma

warnings semi public sex (nanami and higuruma), deepthroat (geto), gojo is a tease (as always), belt as a restraint + very rough sex (higuruma), fem oral + mention of rose toy lol (toji), slight spanking, a lot of clit stimulation, unprotected sex with all of them whoops!! and the reader does pee after, just not mentioned ;0

note it took me two hours to proofread this and it’s now past 4am LOL i am tired

GOJO

“satoru….” you mewl, nails clawing on his biceps. he has your back against the front door of your shared apartment, his cock stretching your walls ever so slightly. his sweats are hanging just down his mid thighs, too hasty to take a second to shed them right off.

you weren’t going to deny— it’s been a week and a half since you and satoru were able to have some alone, intimate time together. long story short, you were on your way out the door to go to an important job interview for a promotion that you’ve been wanting. your boyfriend kissed you good luck, but that kiss turned into a heated makeout session which ultimately escalated into him being inside of you.

somehow.

he hikes your pencil skirt up, your panties peeled to the side to let his cock slip inside your cunt with ease. the mild burning stretch of your walls due to the lack of foreplay and him fucking into you raw was driving your mind in circles, although you still tried to stand your ground. “please— i have to go now or i’ll be late.” but it really is so hard to resist when he’s hitting all the right spots, his hand wrapped around your neck with his fingers pressing hard enough to have your pussy begging for more as much as you’d like to say otherwise. you shot a quick glance towards the kitchen clock with half lidded eyes, revealing that you have a good 25 minutes to get there on time.

the problem just lies with the fact that it takes 20 minutes to travel there alone.

satoru pants with each thrust, “just another minute or two, babe,” he leans in, closing his eyes and clashing his lips against yours, transferring the tint you applied on your lips to his. with his chest pressed against yours, he keeps you from collapsing, his free hand gripping onto the plump of your ass. he bites your lip, evoking a whine from you as he parts, huffing short breaths against your open mouth. “gotta make sure you’re all relaxed before your interview.”

the air was so hot between the two of you; you were starting to feel dizzy, the coil in your stomach just waiting to be snapped the rougher satoru would thrust into you, his tip getting closer to tap on that g-spot. you stammer, your head slamming back against the wooden door from the overbearing pleasure going on in between your legs, “f-fuck, just hurry up please…”

your frantic pleas were only encouraging satoru to increase his hips in speed, the wet slaps of his cock plunging into you more prominent while he removed his hand from your neck and onto squeezing your clothed breast— wrinkling the fabric that you took the time to iron neatly last night. you could just whine, too dumb on his cock to say anything that wouldn’t pass on as gibberish.

he strikes a harsh slap on your ass, then massages the sting right off using his palm with light squeezes. satoru groans, trying to help by hurrying you to your impending orgasm, sneaking his hand under to flick at your swollen clit. heat rushed up to your cheeks as you dug your nails deeper on his arms, leaving crescent-shaped marks all on his lithe skin. “fuck yeah… that oughta get you cumming now,” he snickers, followed with a grunt when he felt your walls clench around him as the pad of his index finger grazed your clit in irregular patterns. your ass hit the door with a bang! each time he slammed into you, hoping that you don’t get a noise complaint from this.

you were getting annoyed at his little cheeky comments this point, but your body felt like it was floating, his dick far up enough that you could feel the raw texture of it grazing the spot that got your thighs shaking like a leaf, bottom lip jutted out into a pout, “toru— ah— you’re so—“ your palms are curled into fists, arms now wrapping around him to jab punches on his back as your body jolts with every thrust. you sucked in your breath for a moment before you rolled your hips, riding out your high by grinding your clit against his finger, your pussy getting tighter and warmer for him.

you crumple your fingers onto the back of his black compression shirt, pushing him further against you. as much as he’d like to hold out his orgasm and slack his hips to make it more intense, the moral part of him convinced him that you actually have to leave now. plus, it wasn’t helping that your cunt was squeezing on him so deliciously that it was milking him with no resistance, shooting his heavy load deep inside you.

he kept a firm grip on your ass and your boob, wishing he could take your button up off to see your perky nipples, but decided against it for obvious reasons. satoru wanted to say something, implied by the way his mouth parted, but was interrupted with a moan when you felt his warm cum paint your walls, a drop seeping down your inner thigh. “fuck, that’s it, pretty girl. milk my cock f’me just like that,” he mumbles softly as if he was talking to himself.

your senses came back to you when he pulled out, giving you a quick peck on the lips before hooking his fingers on the garter of his sweats to pull it back up. “agh! you’re crazy, my outfit and makeup are all ruined!” you couldn’t see yourself but you could just imagine your mascara is all over your under-eyes now, lipstick smeared on your cheek. your clothes are also disheveled, a huge spot on your button up top is folded with wrinkles, not to mention the mess in between your legs that will take way too long to clean up in the restroom.

satoru sighs jokingly as he pulls your skirt back down to cover you, patting on it to get rid of any crumples. “get yourself a new shirt and bring your makeup bag with you too.” he’s smiling wide, like a bulb just lit up above his head.

“why?” you raise an eyebrow, although you do admit a lot of your prior anxiety has been lifted off your shoulders. your chest feels lighter somehow even though you normally would be panicking right now.

satoru takes your purse from the ground, slipping his hand in to search for your car keys. when he finds it, he swings them in front of you and you roll your eyes, giggling at his foolishness. “you gotta be there soon, no? i’ll drive you while you get ready.” he winks.

“you’re so stupid.”

he sticks his tongue out before opening the front door, “and i love you!”

GETO

you had planned for a few of your mutual friends to come over to you and suguru’s place for dinner. you were in a frenzy, trying to get your boyfriend in the zone with you to make sure every spot in the house is clean and ready. he was compliant, your apartment was a mess due to no time to clean for the past few days. he knew hosting was something you took seriously even if it was just for a casual gathering, so you were satisfied when he kept the same energy alongside you.

you had 15 minutes to spare after everything was ready. suguru intended on spending that time by relaxing; his back was starting to kill him like he’s a senile old man, but to his surprise, you had other plans in mind.

“oh— baby, you don’t have to do this.” he laughs, his face crimson from having your lips wrapped so firm against his cock. you run your tongue just right along the prominent vein protruding through the length, and he was fighting the urge to thrust his hips up for his tip to prod against the back of your throat. you were on your knees as he sat on the foot of the mattress, his palms rested on the sheets.

your intention was to reward him for being such a good boyfriend; he deserves it after doing everything you asked of him and beyond. even if you were being demanding.

you breathe air in through your nose as your mouth inched closer and closer towards the hilt, closing your eyes from the stinging tears threatening to patter down your lash line. you wrap your hand below your mouth and around his cock in a c-shape, slow strokes provoking heavenly curses rolling past his lips. your unoccupied hand was sneaked under the space between your legs, teasing yourself by sticking two fingers up, grinding your clothed crotch against it. your wet saliva dribbled down your chin, the sight of you with your mouth full of his dick only turning suguru on even further.

you're practically gargling around him from the lack of air in your throat, your little whimpers vibrating straight through his cock as you continue to take more of him. suguru has his hand on top of your head, his way of guiding you carefully down to the base of his cock, but his patience was starting to run thin.

he groans, his other hand slapping over his mouth, slightly startled and ashamed at how loud that was. “baby, ngh— aren’t they going to be here soon?” as much as he wants to cum and continue this by being inside you, he was trying to be rational. although it was clear his body was longing for this. you just ignored him while you bob your head carefully. suguru’s impatience had taken over him and he lets his hips snap, thrusting his cock up far enough that it nearly punched the back of your throat.

you gag, your hand that was wrapped around him is now grasping on his thigh, slipping your mouth off his long cock and hacking out a cough from gasping too sharply, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip and his tip. drool pooled on the wooden floor beneath you as you continue to rub your confined clit, your hand starting getting sore from trying to get yourself off just to be feeling dull from the barriers of your shorts and underwear.

you wrap your palm around his cock coated with your spit and his pre, wet rings forming on your hand. answering his question, your mouth is still adjusting from being so loose, “we have time, love. and you can’t cum until you’re inside me.”

you jerk your hand up and down, hunching down a bit to stick your tongue back out, flicking on the slit of his tip. looking up at him, you couldn’t help but smirk seeing his face and ears flush pink, eyes squinted in pure pleasure. suguru makes eye contact with you for a second, then transfers his gaze to the pathetic way you humped your fingers, your baby pink shorts making it easy for him to see the drenched spot of arousal on the fabric.

he sighs, having enough of this. “then hurry and spread your legs already.” he slouches down, reaching over and pulling you by the elbows, his strength letting him throw you on the bed behind him. turning around, he kneels in front of your body, all splayed for him as he aggressively grabs the garter of your shorts and underwear and yanks them off, tossing it to the pile on the ground where his sweats are.

you were fascinated at his change of tone, still with a smug smirk on your face as suguru crawled on top of you, his toned arms caging you in between. his fat cock rests in between your folds as he slides up and down, the head pressing on your clit that previously lacked well needed attention. you moan at the contact after being deprived for so long and after suguru thought that you were warmed up enough, he aligns himself to sheath inside of you, your cunt nearly engulfing him whole.

he grunts when he’d reach balls deep inside of you, your walls pulsating around him. “we can finish before they arrive, yeah?” with roughly 7 minutes left before time, he pushes the back of your thighs towards your chest, keeping you spread to allow you to feel how fucking well he’s splitting you open.

you could only respond with a whine, head falling back and digging on the pillow beneath you, hands gripping onto the plush and pulling it towards your face to suppress your moans.

he was concerned whether or not you’d be able to cum on time, but judging by your reaction from him barely being inside you and the fact that he’s not too far off from reaching his own high— he stopped worrying and threw his concerns out the window.

starting with easy, slow thrusts, he chuckles when you pressed the folded pillow against your face. “show me your face, baby. finish what you started.”

NANAMI

“shh. can’t have them hearing you now, sweetheart. this is all for me,” kento nibbles on your ear as you have your back flush against his chest, on his lap with your legs being pried apart by his huge arms wrapped around you while he sits on the toilet. one of his hands are holding onto the back of your knee and the other is splitting your folds with his fingers in a v-shape as he nestles his fat cock past your hole and into your cunt.

this was quite uncomfortable, the space was small around you, with flimsy walls that enclosed the bathroom stall. you were afraid the toilet wasn’t going to be able to hold both of your weights, but nanami managed to shift his hips just enough to let his cock slip in and out of you with no problem. your ass was raised up for more allowance, skirt lifted to your tummy. if someone opens the stall right now, your frontal will be the first thing they see.

taking your 15s with kento has often been like this ever since you started dating on the down low to avoid gossip from your co-workers. it’s also difficult to spend time together outside of work discreetly, especially lately now that it’s been so busy. and what better way to spend 15 minutes of break instead of hearing your other coworkers talk shit about each other?

you mewl, voice weakened, “kento, how much time do we have before break is over?” your head falls backwards towards his shoulder and he leans his head a little to clash his lips against yours, closing your eyes to relish in the way he’s making you see stars already, letting his tongue enter your mouth to meet with yours. he swallows your moans; the kiss was so sloppy, a drop of saliva dripped down your chin and took shape on your collarbone.

it was hard not to squirm around him when he’s stretching you out so good, his nimble fingers collecting the slick that his cock would draw out of you the more he thrusts his hips. he parts abruptly, sticking his tongue out with a twine of saliva making a connection between the two of you. kento huffs and unravels one of his arms around you to check his wristwatch, one leg falling flat on his thigh. he mumbles, “4 minutes.”

“4 minutes?!” you repeat, voice bouncing off the walls. worry had started to take over your body and you wriggle your other leg to release yourself out of his constraint, which he was willing to let go— until the door to the bathroom hinges open. he was still inside of you and you swiftly allow him to conceal your legs from the open space beneath the stall by taking hold of the back of your knees in a butterfly spread, legs in the air. you cover your mouth with both your hands, pupils blown as you hear footsteps coming closer and closer to where you two are.

it just happened to be the day you decided to risk it and do it in the nearest male’s bathroom to your office as opposed to going all the way to kento’s car. you should’ve been surprised it took this long for someone to come in unwarranted.

the man was humming a song as he chose the stall next to you, and he sounded like one of your junior co-workers: ino takuma. you turn your head a bit to look at kento for some sort of reassurance and he mouths to you word for word, “let’s wait.” you nod sheepishly, mind now filled with uncertainty, yet still clouded with the thought of his dick buried inside you while someone else is just a few feet away.

you were all ears as ino unbuckled his belt, hearing a liquid stream shoot down the toilet. he notices that someone else is at the stall next to him, interrupting the song he was humming and asking with a hint of enthusiasm, “you okay over there?”

kento shimmies his hips, the feeling of his cock shifting in you almost making you gasp, which thankfully you were able to suppress with your palms. he clears his throat, “uh- yeah. i’m doing just fine.” you were being folded in half, knees pushed enough that it’s nearly against your chest, tits spilling out of your bra. kento looked up and realized that your clothes were still hanging over the wall partitioning the stalls between yours and ino’s as his own clothes were occupying the hooks behind the door. scooping your legs up with one arm, he reached his free one over to grab the garments which consisted of your sweater and your panties.

thankfully, ino didn’t seem to have noticed that, but for some reason he was taking his damn time in his stall. or maybe that’s just how it felt like to you.

ino chuckles, recognizing your boyfriend’s voice. “mr. nanami? you seem distressed, did the lunch ruin your stomach too?” your ears catch the sound of toilet paper whirring out of the dispenser, breath caught in the back of your throat as if he would be able to figure out that his two senior co-workers are screwing in the stall next to him just by your breath.

kento laughs nervously, quietly placing your clothes on the toilet dispenser next to you to free up his hand, then moving it so his fingers would be right over your clit, rubbing slow circles on it. you writhe on top of him, and he tightens his grip around you with his other arm to keep you from squirming. “y-yeah,” he stammers, “just a tad constipated,” he purses his lips, shaking his head in shame that he just admitted something so embarrassing even though it was a lie. ino leaves the stall with a click! and you can hear him washing his hands. “well, i hope you feel better soon, sir. i’ll let them know you’re not feeling well so take your time in there, okay?”

he must think this is some sick joke or something because kento started rocking his hips again, his cock plunging along your walls, the head pressing on your g-spot. kento grunts when you clench around him, tipping him over the edge, “… thanks ino.”

when you were sure that ino was gone after waiting a few seconds, you remove your hands from your mouth which now dripped with drool, letting yourself huff out loud. one hand was cupped on top of kento’s hand that worked on your clit while the other swung behind the back of his head to push his face close as you twist your head to give him a quick kiss. “m’ so close,” you mumble, lips paralyzed. “i want you to cum inside me…”

“okay baby, i got you.” kento couldn’t give a flying fuck how loud you were being now, screeching moans of his name and the wet sloppy way his cock would fuck into you— he swears he didn’t even realize you released just right before he did, cum dripping down his cock as it popped out, letting your sore legs loose. you shudder from the hollow feeling of him pulling out, sighing as you catch your breath.

you let your feet touch the ground, hands now placed on his knees for leverage as you stand back up. you turn around to see his body sheened with sweat, the buttons on his long sleeve top half undone. “are we going to make it on time?” you ask, although you had a sick feeling you’re already late. it wouldn’t have mattered so much if you didn’t have a meeting.

“about 30 seconds,” he pants as he starts to place his buttons back in its respective holes.

“ughhhh shit!” you curse, frantically pulling your skirt back down, trying to make the wrinkles look neat, then grabbing your panties to slip them back on. you catch kento staring at you and he laughs at himself, giving him a perplexed look in return for not being as antsy as you.

he mutters, “so cute.”

TOJI

you’ve been saying no to having sex with toji ever since he pissed you off about eating a slice of cake you’ve been saving and fantasizing about all day. you specifically told him to leave that alone in the fridge before going to work, but lo and behold— you came home with it gone from its spot. he offered to buy another one, but that cake is a seasonal item from your local bakery, and you happened to get your hands on it on the last day it’s available, having to wait in line for 45 minutes.

toji thought you were being petty, but asked for your forgiveness anyways. you forgave, but you basically grounded him from touching you all week even though he tried to lure you in multiple times. it started from buying you a whole cake from the same bakery— although it was a different flavor. you appreciated the gesture and thanked him for it, but you stood your ground.

the second day he tried seducing you by taking his shirt off right after he came home from the gym. your eyes couldn’t contain itself from staring at the muscles on his back as he smirked to himself walking into your shared bedroom. it was a nice try, knowing that could get you riled up, but again, you planned to keep your word.

until the 3rd day hit and toji was fed up with it.

you were in bed facing him, eyes closed, getting ready to sleep when he suddenly says, “1 minute.”

eyes now half open, eyebrows scrunching in curiosity, you ask, “what are you talking about?”

he sighs with desperation in his tone, “if i can make you cum in one minute, you’ll stop this. please?” it’s rare that toji pleads to you like this, but it is a pretty big deal that you banned him from touching you considering how you’re both quite handsy with each other.

scoffing, you laugh at him, then puckering your lips in mockery, “1 minute? okay big boy, whatever you say.” but his bet doesn’t sound so bad when you’ve been just as needy the past 3 days, discreetly using your rose toy in the restroom pretending that it’s his lips sucking on your clit instead. you didn’t realize it’d be affecting you this much too.

after a moment of silence, you approve of his deal, “fine, but if you can’t make me cum in a minute, i’ll extend the ban for a month,” toji knew the risks he was taking— no sex for a month? but nonetheless, he was ready to place all his cards on the table.

thus, how you ended up with your legs shaking around his head, his tongue latched onto your clit.

he has two fingers slipped inside your cunt, and it was evident from your loud whimpers that you’ve been pent up just as much as he has been. he sighs, as if he just chugged a fresh, cold drink. “come on, baby. were you trying to punish me or yourself?” you were already soaking wet by the time he discarded your panties, coming to a realization that this challenge was nothing more than a piece of cake.

the timer on your phone was ticking with 45 seconds left in his favor. his thick fingers are vehemently being shoved in and out of you, it was starting to get embarassing how loud the squelching is with each push of his digits. he jostled the wet muscle of his tongue on your clit in a jerking motion, and you arch your back, covering your face with your palms as if that would help. his saliva trickled down your folds, then caught it with his tongue.

you refused to look at him, keeping your eyes glued shut or else you’ll cum sooner than you anticipated. his arms are wrapped around the outside of your thighs which rested on his shoulders to keep your pussy in full access for him. his hands massaged the pudge of your groin, adding onto the sheer stimulation you’re experiencing right now.

toji mocks, seeing that the clock tells him he still has half a minute left and you’re already on the brink of cumming all over his fingers. “would rather cum on my fingers or on my dick?”

you gasp, hands now grasped onto the crème sheets beneath to you. “ah— hah— you’re dick, fuck—“

your face felt so hot, the tips of his fingers dipping into that squishy spot inside that got you squirting, fluid spurting out and soaking his fingers while he placed his lips on your clit, swirling his tongue around the swollen bud. he laughs, “fuck yeah… fucking love it when you squirt for me like that…” you lift your head take a peek at him, tucking your chin in to see him tease you by sticking his tongue out, upper lip dripping with your slick.

you tremble, slightly out of breath as your chest rose and fell, “shit, toji. okay, you got me.” maybe it wouldn’t have been so easy for him if you weren’t already horny, but you had to hand it to him for playing your game well. your rose toy couldn’t even compare.

he traces your pussy once more with the fingers that were just inside of you, smirking arrogantly as he sits up, leaving your legs to land back on the mattress. his face is on top of yours, and you cup his cheeks to bring his lips towards yours for a longing kiss, tasting a hint of your arousal. you nibble on his bottom lip as he pulls away, aroused by the way his lip bounced back up.

just in time, the timer went off and you searched for your phone with your hand to turn it off without averting your gaze from him. he asks with a mumble, “the ban is off?”

you chuckle, voice hoarse and throat dry, “fine, the ban is off.” with your arms laced around him, he uses one hand to pop his cock out his boxers, not bothering to pull it all the way down. he grins as he slaps it in between your folds, watching you shiver under his touch. he leans in for a peck on the lips, followed with a harsh strike to your tit with his palm before groping on it to massage the sting away.

he breathes against your trembling lips, “still wanna cum on my cock?”

HIGURUMA

“higuruma, sir—“ you giggle, bent over the wide oak desk that occupied the back of his office. your hands were bounded behind you with his leather belt as higuruma pounds into you from behind, your body jolting forward with each thrust. he was still clad with his suit on, with the exception that his pants and boxers are down around his ankles, thinking that it’s too much of a hassle to take it all off as he’s still on the clock.

he slouches down, licking a stripe up the shell of your ear before muttering, “it’s hiromi, darling.” he reminds you, having hated the idea of being called by his last name while having sex. you flinch, sensitivity heightened from being deprived of using your hands. the desk produced harsh creaking noises with each mean thrust of higuruma’s hips, releasing all his pent up anger on your tight cunt. as soon as he entered the office, he had you bent over with your ass pointed up towards the ceiling, tugging your pants down and moving your panties over one ass cheek.

the cases he had to deal with all week have been stressful in the worst ways possible— uncooperative clients, complex situations, just everything felt like it was against him. the only thing that bode well for him having to endure this hellish week was you— his legal assistant. you’re organized, quick to your feet, and efficient. everything he wants in an assistant.

oh and the pussy is amazing too, but no one else is supposed to know that.

you were resting on one cheek, faced towards the shelves full of loose papers and books, saliva trickling down on the surface of his desk. your walls were being bullied by his cock, drilling into you with no mercy. you were already seeing stark— this all would've been fine and dandy if you two didn’t have to be at court in less than half an hour. “hiromi… we have to leave soon.” you cry, voice constricted from having your chest pressed against the desk.

he continues to slap his pelvis against your ass, hips consistent with rhythm like it’s a metronome. “do we? fuck—“ he grunts, slamming his eyes shut as he relishes the way your snug cunt would pulse around him. he reaches one of his hands up, then smacks your ass, making you yelp in pain while his free one is keeping your body from thrashing by squeezing your other ass cheek. you whine, still thinking about work for some odd reason, “yes— and you know how uptight that client is.” it felt ridiculous how tears are rimmed on your lash line from the prickling sensation on your ass while you’re speaking about professional matters.

higuruma slacks his hips for a moment, pushing his weight against you so hard that you almost choke trying to gasp, cock sunken in you to the hilt while case files and the pens on his desk shifted in position. he ponders while grazing his hand over the curve of your ass, “he’s the one that snapped at you for being a minute late?”

you turn your head the best you can, giving him a timid nod. this particular client has been hard to work with, higuruma was trying his best to be empathetic but sometimes he wishes he didn’t have this passion for bringing justice. the man is even infamous at your firm now for being extremely rude, and higuruma was the only one willing to take his case on.

he sighs, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue, waiting for a moment to think about his choices: whether to cut this off with you now to please the client’s wishes of you two being there 10 minutes early, or continue this and arrive just a few minutes past the agreed time.

it didn’t take long for him to decide— tugging on the loose strap of the belt around your wrists to pull you against his chest, cock angled so fucking deliciously that you feel like his tip is poking on your abdominal lining. he whispers, breath hitting the crook of your neck, “that bastard will just have to deal with it then,” he lets some of the strap loose so that your spine would be in a bowed arch, arms stretched back from higuruma pulling on it. you breathe through your mouth with your teeth clenched shut from the ache coming from your wrist. there’s no way that’s not going to leave a mark considering how the leather is starting to dig into your skin since it’s the only thing supporting your upper body.

that thought was soon discarded though when he used that to his advantage, wrapping the belt around one of his wrists to keep you arched as he thrusts into you, your breasts jiggling even under the confines of your clothes. the sounds eliciting from your lips were starting to gradually increase in volume, even as you tried to keep it down for the sake of your fellow coworkers. your cheeks were hot, cunt throbbing every time you hear your boss grunt and mutter curses under his breath.

with both your eyes shut, you open one eye to shoot a quick glance at the clock on his desk. the client wants you there in 20 minutes but the court hearing doesn’t actually start until 30 minutes. the only obstacle you have to face is the traffic on the way to the court building.

if fate couldn’t have been more against the two of you right now, higuruma’s office phone started ringing. you turn your head as a gesture for him to notice in case he wasn’t paying attention, but he was already looking at it with a death stare on his face, as if that phone committed a heinous crime or something. his hips never faltered, you were being split open with such vigor that your legs were shivering.

the ringing eventually stopped, but then followed with another one, with the same annoying string of sound. he had enough at this point, but he kept plunging into you even harder, your body jerking forward, his cockhead pistoning into your g-spot. obviously pissed off, his voice was gruff as he groaned with the animalistic desire to fuck you full of cock. the irritating noise of the landline was blaring, but maybe it would’ve been for the best considering how vocal you’re being.

“fuck, hiromi—! i’m gonna cum,” your wanton moans were being swallowed by the phone’s continuous ringing, your arms going limp. his belt clinked with each deep thrust, and he couldn’t even bother trying to be quiet anymore either. “yes, baby— cum all over me, mhm—“ he purses his lips, moaning as his tone raised in pitch, his hips stiffening for a millisecond when he felt you release around him and he pulls out, one hand still gripped on the leather strap while he uses his other to jerk himself off to his orgasm, streams of his warm cum spurting out on your inner thighs.

you felt so frail, higuruma unbuckling the belt holding your wrists together almost immediately after his high. you spun around, and he wipes cum off his hand with the handkerchief placed inside his suit pocket. he sees that your wrists are wrung with indents of the leather. “i’m so sorry, sweetheart. we should’ve used something less harsh.” placing the handkerchief on his desk when he was done with it, he holds both of your wrists and massages them, his thumb caressing on your skin.

“now you owe me dinner later.” you stick your tongue out and he scoffs.

the corners of his lips upturn into a smile, “sure.” he glances at the clock and he throws his head back, sighing in exhaustion.

“that prick is gonna yell at us for being late.” he chuckles, referring to the client. when he lets your hands go, you take a tissue from his desk behind you, cleaning yourself off. then you pull your slacks back up, tucking your shirt under while you dust off any wrinkles and debris from the carpet.

you laugh, poking fun at what he said earlier, “let that bastard deal with it then.”

[fishbloc]

death stranding au because ds2 trailer made me shameless and forced me to draw this idea i had in my head for months. sorry this won't make sense unless you've played the game...

[formulaforza]

okay the charles fic you just posted is GOD TIER. audibly squealing. you are so talented. oh my lord.

at least the non french speakers are enjoying it!

[lawreela]

one piece redraws from some old stuff i found

[effemar]

one for my heart and two for show! / three tears for all the souls below!

[cybertron-after-dark]

Conducting some research, reblog for bigger sample size, and tell me who you voted for and why if you'd like

Propaganda welcome.

[digitaldreamsss]

Interlinked.

[inkskinned]

im gonna start a fight; and, at the same time, i need you to take this in the most good-faith way possible, but:

videos that involve body-checking and intentionally (and uncritically) show a mealplan of an unhealthy number of calories are just a revamped version of pro-ana food diaries.

and yeah, i know there's arguments. i address some of them under the cut. but at the end of the day, we're just coming back to romanticizing mental illness; we've just found a better platform for it.

this is already something we've done. we knew it was wrong and tried to stop it. and tbh. it just wasn't enough.

there are people who argue "well, what if you have an eating disorder, you can't help it if you don't eat!" except that as someone with an ED; we are not infants. we know what we're doing. part of having an ED is that you are like, maybe too self-aware. even if we can't help our own food choices, we don't need to fucking romanticize the disorder - something we've been warning you about since 2013. there are hours of setup, filming, and editing that go into these videos. they do not happen to fall into place randomly. there is a reason they are pieced together to be beautiful, bright, inspiring.

there's this woman who pretty much only posts daily plans under a normal amount of calories, and everyone defends her saying but it's better than nothing! and i'm like. except she opens those with images of her showing off her body and provides no context in the video or caption that suggests that she believes what she's doing is unhealthy. she has hundreds of thousands of followers on a platform designed for young kids and teens. i refuse to believe that by accident her content just happens to be cheery advice on "healthy" versions of starving.

for any other symptom of mental illness, we would be incredibly enraged by this kind of placid acceptance of a "tips and tricks" fast-start guide. imagine if people posted pink & pretty videos saying "best places to cut yourself" as if it was a fucking storytime. we, as a society, are so fucking fatphobic that we would rather accept blatantly harmful displays of self harm than admit that we are obsessed with a hyper-thin body type.

i am not suggesting someone never talks about their disorder. i talk about mine. actually, it's a plot point in my book.

here's the difference: i recognize it's a fucking mental illness. i am very careful to never mention a specific weight, eating pattern, or calorie plan. i always make sure to position it as something that ruined my fucking life. i do not put cheery music in the background and hearts and sparkles over my worst moments. i do not film it in bright light. i do not start each passage with an image of a thin body followed by "here's how to look like her."

eating disorders should not be framed as aspirational. and the problem is that society worships the "after" image, so long as you don't get too sick. there is a reason so many people who quit being "influencers" will later admit - i wasn't eating well that whole time; an obsession with food was completely destroying my life.

we let any uncredited, uncertified person write the most backwards, fucked up shit about how to get the body you desire! because the underlying, secret belief is: well, at least they're thin! and the real thing that fucking gets me each time - they make fucking money off of it. their irresponsibility and societal harm literally pays off for them.

"why do you care so much." "don't like it don't look." "so what if people experiment with new ways of thinking of food?"

thank you for asking. we're about to get extremely personal. it's because when i was 18 i discovered "thinspiration"/"thinspo." and it absolutely influenced, shaped, and codified my pre-existing eating disorder. i went from having some troubling habits and traits to being incredibly unwell within what felt like a matter of days. there were actual pages designed to train me on how to have an ED correctly. it was all so suddenly easy. i was sick; and the nature of the illness meant - i wanted to be sicker.

it takes an average of 7 years for a person to fully recover. i know this personally - even now, 10 years from the worst of it, i still fucking struggle. i am so much happier now and i eat what i want and i literally don't think about food at all (19 year old me would shudder) and yet - i still fucking know the calories of plain toast with butter.

an eating disorder is one of the deadliest types of mental illness. over 1 in 4 people with an ED will attempt suicide.

and i'm sorry. i just do not see the exchange rate of "high rate of engagement" versus "the value of a human life."

[azoosepted]

here we go. the first of many. god why do i do this to myself

based off of this post