#down east circle

[harveyspictures]

Seals kept us company at Yankee Cove near Whitehead NS August 8, 2022. Beautiful and remote anchorage.

[harveysreblogs]

Charlottetown PEI August 4 2022

[186-3]

courting antisemitism

so i recently decided to take a look at the latest stonetoss comics (probably because i love suffering). and while i was expecting some content on the israel palestine conflict, what i did not expect was how... standard it seemed. well, most of it at least, but i'll get to that in a second.

for context, if you don't know what stonetoss is, it's a (poorly drawn) webcomic known for having radical alt-right views - meaning it's incredibly racist, homophobic, transphobic, islamophobic, antisemitic. all that fun stuff.

so while i was expecting to see bad stuff, one of the first things i saw on the topic of israel was this:

terrible art aside, this comic is making a point that i usually see in left wing circles: that israel is pinkwashing genocide.

curious if there was more like this, i kept looking, and the comic right before that one was this:

again, this makes points that i usually see in left wing circles. that american healthcare is crazy expensive, that canada tells poor people to commit suicide, and that israel is bombing hospitals.

why does stonetoss, this well known alt-right nutjob, now seem to be bringing up left-wing talking points?

curious, i kept going deeper:

well this is... odd. clearly, stonetoss is trying to say that israel is on another level of bad, even worse than russia, iran, and north korea. i can possibly see someone on the left making the argument that the russian invasion of ukraine isn't as bad as what israel is doing in gaza, or that at least north korea isn't invading any other countries, but... iran??? the country that has a police force designed to enforce religious law, and gets away with murdering women who do not properly cover their hair? the country that props up paramilitary groups in countries all over the middle east, including lebanon, yemen, and yes, palestine?? that's completely ridiculous

but, given how much more israel is in the news nowadays than any of these other countries, i could see why someone would buy this

and now, we're starting to get to the crux of what stonetoss is trying to do. when someone sees this, they might be inclined to agree with it. they might begin to think that israel is the worst country on the planet

and that might not seem so bad at first. but the more you hate israel, especially irrationally, the more you feel allowed to dehumanize those who support it. the more you might be willing to agree with this comic, which came out two days prior to the one above

this comic says that jews, as a whole have no desire to exist with other people. it is blatantly antisemitic

i'm sure you could imagine some young leftist who sees the comics above this one and thinks, "this guy makes some good points". and then, when they get to this one, they might realize that this is antisemitism

or, they may not.

and that would start them down the road to becoming an antisemite.

this is what stonetoss and other alt-right nutjobs are hoping to achieve. to take left wing fury at israel, and direct it at jews.

we saw it with those neo-nazis at the palestine rally, and we're seeing it again here.

and if you've found yourself agreeing with what stonetoss has said so far, i would like you to see the last comic stonetoss put out before october 7th:

this horrifically racist comic is in reference to an environmental activist who was murdered by a black man in early october. this blatantly racist garbage is the kind of stuff stonetoss usually puts out.

but as soon as october 7th happened? these were his next two comics:

stonetoss completely changed the comic's tone as soon as the current crisis started. why?

to get as many people as possible to get on board with hating jews.

and i know many of you might be thinking that "well, everyone knows that stonetoss is racist garbage. nobody is going to fall for this"

except, as we saw with the neo-nazis at the rally for palestine, it's not always that obvious who the antisemites are and who is just rallying for peace. they are often a lot better at disguising it than stonetoss is.

AND EVERYONE NEEDS TO BE AWARE OF THAT

EVERYONE, no matter HOW much experience you have, can fall victim to propoganda. EVERYONE needs to be aware of what people around them are saying, and able to pick out hateful rhetoric, because even the stuff that is just kind of toeing the line of what's hateful is still putting your foot in the door

be cautious, everyone. and stomp out hate where you see it.

[ineylesian]

— FELL ON BLACK DAYS

AVENTURINE X FEM! READER

AO3 | NAVIGATION

WORD COUNT — 9.5k

WARNINGS — spoilers for penacony’s storyline, enemies (??) to lovers, slowburn fr (it gets good i promise) mentions of genocide, mentions of child exploitation (not explicit), weapons & violence, smut, fem anatomy reader, sub!aventurine, mentions of traumatic events, one bed troupe

SUMMARY — Risk. It’s the word Aventurine lives by, a motto that claws at your heart when he’s gone. A reality that spills tears when he closes the door to your apartment, leaving only the ache of your heart in his absence. A danger that never guarantees the next time he chases his destiny will not be his last. 

You will never fight to change it, because that’s all it is. Destiny.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — AHHH i love aventurine so much he made me write again <333 i will defend this man to the end of the earth i swear. also holy word vomit, this is officially my longest piece!!

“BREAKING NEWS: Reports incoming that the International Peace Corporation has been seen with an employee suspected of Avgin origin from the planet Sigonia-IV. All habitants from this world were thought to have been wiped out or lost to the galaxy, so the appearance of this mysterious individual has grasped the attention of–”

The broadcast slowly fades into the background, overtaken by the synth and snare of a song that lightly shakes the ground at your feet. 

Sometimes you’re better of dead–

“Oh, you think you’ll be an asset? You’ll have to learn to make tough decisions on the go here if you want to succeed, so tell me…”

There’s a gun in your hand, it’s pointing at your head–

“You want to help this clan? Help claim this world and rid it from the remaining filth that roams?”

There’s a piercing screech amidst the bar, the high pitched wail of the speaker blasting the music fighting against the volume. A few seconds pass before the song picks back up again, a few lyrics skimmed through.

Which do you choose, a hard or soft option? (How much do you need?)

In a West End town, a dead end world, The East End boys and the West End girls–

“...”

“Before your initiation, you must make a prayer to the winds and mountains. Do you swear to devote your thoughts and beliefs to them, and reclaim the glory of Sigonia-IV?”

We’ve got no future, we’ve got no past

Here today, built to last–

“I swear.”

The bass fades and you’re left standing amidst a crowd of chatting people, some high on buzz, others passed out beside the restroom. Your eyes slowly fix forward, coming to a halt as the masses shift in formation, curving in a circle around the biggest table in the casino. Lined with forest green felt and red chips, hands bang against the surface joined in a cry of frustration. 

“God damn it. This is rigged!” A player screams, hot-faced and teeth grit. “YOU!”

He stomps his way around the table, stopping at the dealer’s chair, failing to gain any attention despite the magnitude of his boots on the floor. In retaliation, the man takes a fistfull of the dealer’s hair, spinning him violently around and grabbing the collar around his neck.

Seldom have there been times where you didn’t see him in this sort of setting, a man with glasses that carried the same orange tint as the drink in his hand, die mounted between his fingers as he speaks with a wealthy patron. His words weave like velvet on a fine tailored suit as he invites you to play a game of chance, and before the game has even begun, you’ve lost.

His name is Aventurine, and, just as his reputation precedes him, the corners of his lips turn upward as you enter his field of view. He is never one to be down on luck.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to exit the casino. The drinks have riled you up a bit too much, and I’m afraid you’re no longer sober enough to keep playing.”

The smell of outlandish alcohol hits your nose in a foul wave as he turns, rudely shrugging your hand off of his shoulder. 

“And who do you think you are? Protecting this weasel like that.” You take a step back as he advances, completely abandoning his grip on Aventurine as his gaze focuses on the emblem tailored to your shoulder. “You’re in on this scam too, aren’t you? Fuckin’ IPC, always looking to take money from people.” A sizable crowd has gathered at this point, and with that, guards are quick to stand at your side. You tilt your head to the side, extending a hand to gesture at the coat draped over his empty chair.

“You may gather your things and leave now, sir. Refusal to comply will result in you being forcibly removed.” 

A few more seconds of seething stares pass before he grumbles an insult toward you and rushes to gather his things, attempting to push the guards following him away. You sigh, turning to the dealer, who is now comfortable in his chair, feathered hat placed neatly on his lap as he shuffles the pool of cards pushed his way.

“Alright folks, now that’s over with, how about another–”

“Mr. Aventurine unfortunately won’t be able to join you all this round.” You quickly cut him off, laying the newly layered deck of cards onto the table. “May I have a word, please?”

The blonde takes a glance between you and the rest of the patrons at the table before nodding, allowing a charismatic smile to decorate his face as he slides the cards forward. 

“Of course. Miss Antonia, would you please find another dealer to step in for the remaining games?”

He gathers a kind nod from a nearby waitress, before turning to follow you outside of the casino. As the door opens, strong drafts of icy wind blow against your face, and you hear a shiver from behind.

“Sheesh, couldn’t we at least have talked inside? I didn’t come prepared to stand in the cold…”

You send a look his way, and Aventurine’s hands rise, lips pursed in faux apology. He pushes his glasses farther into his nose bridge as you lean against the casino’s exterior wall, shielding yourself from the chill. It’s clear he’s not taking you seriously, stifling out a yawn and rubbing his eyes before he even spares you a glance.

“Here to lecture me about the, wait…” His eyes suddenly narrow, honing in on your uniform. “Who are you?”

You remain silent, watching as he taps a few fingers against his forehead, thinking. The talisman of the IPC’s Strategic Investment Department sits firmly laid into your uniform. A smoothly carved onyx, inferior to the cornerstone you know he possesses and certainly lacking in power. His eyes linger on the stone for a few moments, biting the inside of his cheek as he tilts his head back up.

“Never seen that stone before..” He says after a few seconds, voice substantially lower. “What rank are you?”

His gaze is opaque, on guard. You resist the urge to bite your lip, figuring lying in this kind of situation wouldn’t be the best decision. Subconsciously, you bring a hand up to your stone, adjusting your coat flap before bringing it back down. 

“P39.”

His eyebrows form a sharp line, but his lips remain flat. The lens behind thick shades linger on the stone, burning into the lights that reflect off of the darkness. He’s never seen someone who isn’t a part of the Ten Cornerstones wear something like this, so who are you?

“If you’re here to try and convince me to do something, I’m not interested. I’ve had enough orders drilled into my head since I came to Jarilo-VI.”

His forefront is confident, but you can see the hand that lingers at his side, struggling to stay put. It reeks of mild uncertainty, and a lack of security. He doesn’t feel safe when he’s not in control.

“I’m here to tell you that your assignment’s changed.” Your response is straight and to the point. There’s no room to betray any underlying feelings of guilt you may have from years passed. “You’ll be with me and my team, we’re going to the Loufu in three days to sort some business out. I suggest you finish your deals here before we go.”

“Well then.” Aventurine clicks his tongue, mild annoyance riding the smile that forms on his lips. “Let’s acquaint ourselves then, shall we? You must know who I am, so please allow me the pleasure of returning the favor.”

A small passage of frosty air rises into the atmosphere as he breathes, hand extending in formality. You take it, slowly shaking, taking in the defensive rise of his shoulders. It seems he has zero tolerance for strangers.

“Nice to meet you, Aventurine. They call this stone the onyx.”

–

The Interastral Peace Corporation only takes workers to be strong-minded and just as toughly willed. In the Strategic Investment Department, greed is a virtue, and wanting nothing but it all is a prayer. Those who earn their spot as a cornerstone will stop at no means to chase their desires. 

Aventurine values risk, but he always loves to have control in his corner. Without control, the chips in his hands are of no use, and his bargains crumble beneath him. 

A gambler's true nightmare, sitting right between his eyes.

Your relation to him is a true mystery, despite all of the digging he’s been doing after arriving at the Loufu. Despite the numerous deals you’ve closed together, he still fails to know anything about you, other than the fact that you have quick wit and fascinating knowledge of the universe. He won’t dare approach you directly, his inhibitions are too high and he knows too little.

However, there’s something off about you and that stone of yours. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

“Does the IPC really need that many funds to perform a vitality check on the Sky-Faring Commission? From what I remember, this is nearly triple the amount of last year’s fee.”

“Well, Helm Master, from what our reports say, you had agreed to the accumulation of interest based on reports of safety in the Loufu. Based on recent events, there has been a substantial raise in alarm concerning the safety of the citizens here. We hope you can understand.”

Aventurine unfolds his hands, sliding a glossy black dossier over to the woman known as Yukong. After skimming over the first page of analysis, she sighs, and places her hand over the cover.

“Is it possible that we could touch bases on this later this week? I need time to look over these documents and discuss them with my team before making any decisions.”

Biting back a groan of exasperation, you nod, politely shaking her hand and bowing your head when she stands. What you thought was going to be a quick excursion of debt collecting had turned into two long weeks of debate, and you’re starting to lose sleep. After Yukong exits, you run a hand through your hair, allowing the flow from the outside to flood your ears..

You can admit, the place they chose is certainly impressive in its theatrics, blooming with tall fountains of pristine water and a live band of foxians playing classical music on a mahogany stage. 

After a few minutes of jotting down notes you find yourself leaning against the bar’s edge, elbows cool against smooth wood. Your thoughts swirl like the vibrato of the woman singing a cover of a local song in a language unknown to you, but it’s calming, and you begin to itch with the desire to order a drink.

The waiter polishing glasses near you seems to pick up on your wants, quietly gesturing with her hand that she’ll take your order.

“A Rose in Rain, please.”

She makes your drink at an astonishing speed, sliding the glass next to your hands with a smile. You stare at the royal blue liquid sitting at the rim, contemplating if the hangover will be worth it.

Aventurine eyes the finger that rests along the base of the glass, humming quietly to himself. He figures there’s no better way to get to know someone than through a few drinks.

“You gonna drink that or keep staring at it?”

You turn your head, watching as he slides onto the barstool next to you. He raises his three outer fingers, ordering a small glass of Wintry Garden before turning to face you.

It’s been a long month with the Cornerstone. His approach remains restricted, evident in his snippets of sarcasm that he still doesn’t trust you. Your situation is… unusual, so you tolerate it. However, there still lies a fear within that he’ll go deeper than what’s for his own good.

“Do you usually drink? Or are you afraid to spill your guts?”

His words drip with conviction, blindly accusing you with the corners of his mouth tilted upward. It’s been too long, and he still doesn’t know a damn thing about you other than the stone you wear. He needs to flip this in his favor, fast.

Aventurine’s fingers drum against the bar’s edge as he picks up his drink, taking a small sip. The slight tilt of his head inclines you to start yours too, drinking half of the tall glass in one swig. His eyebrows raise in surprise when the drink hits the table, taking all but a few seconds to completely down the entirety of its contents, a resounding clink following.

When you don’t rush to finish your own drink, Aventurine chuckles, crossing his arms as he turns to face you fully. He’s eyeing you, daring smile plastered on his face.

“What, scared?”

He’s challenging you. And it works, since your drink is empty and you’re ordering a second round in a matter of seconds. Fizz sluggishly bubbles down your throat, followed by rich spots of thick, clear syrup.

A few drinks is all it takes for you to begin feeling lightheaded, pressing a palm into your eye to try and alleviate the nausea. Aventurine is at least 6 drinks in, setting down his next with an exaggerated sigh. Raising his hand for another, he lightly dings his glass against yours, the scent of redsunset sauce high on his breath.

“Let’s talk, Onyx.” He remarks, placing his hands on the table as the bartender comes over. “What’s the real deal with you? How come I haven’t seen you anywhere in the IPC and you show up in my faction one random day?”

You cough, attempting to clear your throat before you answer. It’s tough to keep your resolve with the amount of alcohol in your system.

“Maybe you’re just not perceptive enough, I’ve always been around.”

It’s clear he doesn’t like your answer. Another drink down.

“How many years have you worked for the IPC?”

“Almost 4 now.”

“What’s the entrance project that got you into the Strategy Department?”

You hesitate, and he grins, satisfied. This interrogation is going as planned.

“Well then? I’m sure it couldn’t have been that bad, unless you’re more dangerous than you seem.”

It’s your turn to down a drink, wiping a small trace off of your chin as you think.

“Izumo.” You answer, short, watching as his fingers clasp tighter around the glass in his hand. Surprise.

“You really expect me to believe that?” He scoffs, a tinge of fire evident in his voice. “No one goes to Izumo any more, not after the slash.”

“You’d be surprised at the sheer amount of people that go to Magatsu no Morokami to uncover history. The IPC has their eyes set on valuable relics left behind from the war.”

He leans forward, dangerously close to your face. Past the thick orange lens of his aviators, you can see the irate spark in his eyes, alight with a plethora of shades you’ve never seen before.

“It’s not wise to lie to your superiors.”

You back away, sliding your card across the counter to the bartender. The moment Aventurine gets up to follow, you stop in your tracks, holding a small drive in his direction. You have some tricks up your sleeve, too.

“You’ll change your mind.”

He pauses, slightly bent over in a stupor of alcohol. 

“Best keep your cards close to your chest, Aventurine. Snooping in places you don’t belong bodes bad fortune.”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. Slowly, he takes the drive from your hand, leaning back onto the bar’s surface, eyebrows knit in thought. The world is suddenly too loud and amidst a flurry of harmonic bellows and blinding lights, you disappear. 

—

INTERASTRAL PEACE CORPORATION, STRATEGY INVESTMENT DEPARTMENT HQ | ONE MONTH LATER

“I guess I should apologize.”

Several weeks of absence. You look up from the papers on your desk, watching as Aventurine places your drive back on your desk. He straightens back up, waiting for you to respond.

“Understandable.” You answer, finalizing a document with a quick signature. “I would have had my apprehensions too.”

“Still do, but it’s better to work with someone you tolerate, right?”

You look up. He shrugs, eyeing the papers you have scattered around.

You had given him a flash drive with your report on Izumo, or, at least, a report on it. Sometimes things are left best buried. Still, Aventurine is certainly not stupid, and you know that. The final version of the report is vague and full of small incidents that contrast the planet’s true history There are inconsistencies, but he seems a little less hostile for the time being.

“Whatever you’re hiding from me, I intend to find out in due time. But I can’t do that if we’re at odds.” A hand is extended your way, held a little less straight and professional. “Let’s just try and hate each other a little less, huh?”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you take his hand and shake it for the second time. Aventurine smiles at you, a little less pointedly, but still on guard.

“Friends it is, then.”

His grip tightens slightly at the proclamation, leaving your veins seared and eyes wavering. As if you just made a deal with the devil. Your gaze drags along the fancies of his coat, figuring this is just another gamble he’s won. Something closer to certain death; the passion for it intrigues you.

Sooner or later you’ll suffer the consequences of a lie, you tell yourself. There’s no good outcome when striking up an agreement with a gambler, especially one like Aventurine.

Especially when the gambler is holding a knife to your throat.

The blade is cool, barely holding back from your trachea. Leather gloves hold a fistfull of your hair, shoving you down onto the filing cabinet you were sifting through moments before. Your eyes dart around, only able to see the edge of his shoe pressing against your ankle and the papers you dropped scattered across the floor.

“Just as I thought we were getting along.” His spits, words slithering around your chest and settling around your neck. “It was only a matter of time before you slipped up.”

Confusion spreads across your features, and Aventurine scoffs. His shoe digs deeper into your achilles, and you stagger against the metal. 

“What the Hell are you talking about?” Your words come out choked, gasping for air against Aventurine’s hold.

“That man, the one you had a long conversation with at the meeting tonight? You two seemed to get along.” Aventurine’s breath runs short out of anger, grip scalding against your skin. “You know him, don’t you?”

You close your eyes, tracing the night’s events back several hours. You only recall shaking two men’s hands, one being the esteemed Doctor Ratio’s, and the other the reason why you were down in the IPCs archives. He was dressed nothing short of what a gentleman would wear, offering you many commending words as he spoke of the recent inflation concerning the astral economy. However, you didn’t miss the brilliant stone embedded in the shell of his tie, reflecting vibrant colors you’ve only seen once in your lifetime. And neither did he.

“Pretty stone isn’t it?.” Aventurine continues, pressing your hands against the wall you’re shoved against. “I’ve seen it a lot throughout my lifetime, but I’m sure you know that already. Silly me, forgetting how easy it is to conceal them.”

He reaches for your shoulder, and you push back, using the slightly stagger of his feet to grab the blade’s edge, violently smashing your head into his and spinning him around. His blade traded for your stone. 

“I’d like to know…” His fingers flip the stone around, taking in the colorless mass, like a void amidst the stars. With a quick swipe of his hand, a lighter is held to it, engulfing the black in a dance of pale fire. Aventurine shakes the rising smoke off of him after a few moments, and your eyes narrow.

“...Why you have this?”

Turquoise meteorite, a brilliant blue stone infused with veins of a green just as bright. A kind of beauty that could only be found on Sigonia, tailored in a way only an Avgin could. The crafter spoke of a tactic that could hide the stone’s true color, while keeping its spirit alive with you still. 

Blood drips from your hand, staining your clothes a deep crimson. Gritting your teeth together, you slice a sleeve of your dress shirt off, slowly wrapping it around the wound. 

Aventurine stands, still, fury riding his waterline. His glasses sit beside his feet, hues of purple and blue wavering in the dim light. His hand slowly clenches, in and out, smoothing the cooled piece over his palm.

“What now, Katican?” His voice is quiet, gently ricocheting off of concrete walls. “Came to settle one last score, fulfilling your dream of tracking down the last Avgin? Oh, I bet you’re itching to use that knife right now.”

You step to the side, shaking bloodstained papers off of your feet. The knife drops to the ground, scraping cruelty against the ground as you kick it to a corner far out of your reach. A sharp intake of breath follows, and he steps back.

“I’m no Katican.” Your tone is low, locking eyes with Aventurine, his gaze darts from the knife to you. “The stone was a gift from an Avgin I saved during the second extinction.”

The air is stale, prickling with fear as you pass. Aventurine stands tall, but you know all too well that his greatest fear has come alight in this very room. The thought of coming face to face with a Katican chases him in his nightmares each dusk, a terror looming over his head akin to a raging storm. For once, he’s speechless, completely dumbstruck, mind racing to comprehend all that you’ve bestowed upon him. So little said, yet so great a burden unveiled. 

You would be right in telling him that such information is better left buried. Yet Aventurine knows only how to shatter the destiny that calls for him, and monumental change has left in its wake.

He opens his mouth to speak, yet words fail him. The hand holding the stone sits slotted behind his back, holding on to it as he would a birthright. A piece of his past that would never bless him again, sitting in the shade of Sigonia’s darkest nights, mimicking a color that does not belong to it. He wants to scream, take his knife and shove it so hard into your chest that it comes out on the other side. 

“I am on your side, Aventurine. I always have been.”

After forcing himself to swallow, he straightens up, but you’re already gone.

Distantly, a heavy thud hits the floor.

–

TUMBLEWEED, SALSOTTO.

“I’m Daisy, here this morning with Tumbleweed’s daily weather report. As usual, there’s sun about. However, a rude awakening is coming at around 6pm, as a pretty hefty thunderstorm is coming our way. Make sure you carry your umbrellas! And remember, as our beloved Fleetworld Marc says, thunder only happens when it’s destined.”

Destiny. The word lingers in your head as a pang of hunger hits your insides. Placing your last suitcase beside your bed, you set off for your hotel room’s kitchen. Reaching over and opening a cabinet, you groan when it reveals itself to be empty. 

Shrugging your coat over your shoulders, you pocket your room card. However, when you open your door, you’re quick to step back, feeling your heart rate spike instantly in shock. 

“Uh…” You take a few short breaths, regaining your composure. “Can I help you?”

The man standing before you is no other than Aventurine, chin receding as he looks at you with evident confusion.

“Can I help you?” He retorts, flipping his hotel card up to the light. “This is my room.”

You pull the exact same card out of your pocket, and the two of you share looks of bewilderment. After reading over the numbers on your card for what felt like the 50th time, Aventurine sighs, long and drawn out. 

“Well, this isn’t what I imagined when the front desk told me they could fit a room in for me.”

“I’ll go ask–”

You’re cut off with a swift wave of his hand.

“Don’t bother, I already did. They’re fully booked for the next week.”

Before you know it, both Aventurine and his bags are heading into your… your room. Exhaling, you mutter a quiet “okay..” and follow him inside. However, he’s quick to stop you once you make it past the bathroom, exaggeratedly pointing toward the wall to your right.

“This has to be some kind of joke, right?” Aventurine laughs, pulling his glasses off as if attempting to see better. 

His gaze is fixed on the bed sitting across from you. The single bed, accompanied with a single nightstand and a TV. In that moment, you both share a second groan, and Aventurine palms his face.

“I’ll figure this out.”

In a matter of moments, he’s gone, suitcases set haphazardly on the ground beside you. After a few minutes of thought, you head to the bathroom, soaking your hands in cold water. A brief inhale follows the icy chill that drags over your face, and you silently curse destiny. 

A few hours pass before Aventurine returns, shirt slightly ruffled, annoyance clearly displayed upon his features. The click of boots melds into the soft step of socks as he enters the kitchen, and you silently pass a bowl of fried rice you had been able to scavenge from a local grocery store over. Running a hand through his hair, he nods your way, sliding into the stool across from you and stopping the bowl with his fingers.

“As you could have guessed, there are zero people in this whole building willing to switch rooms with us.”

“Ah, yeah. Tourists are usually snobby.”

A hum signifies his response. Silence encompasses the room as a blanket would, save the soft clangs of silverware on bowls. You fix your gaze on the granite countertops, following intricately woven lines of mixed stone and drawing patterns in each section you come across. Becoming so immersed in the cracks, you don’t even notice when Aventurine passes you twice, once with his bowl, and once without. Seconds turn into minutes as you stare at the sheet of stone, only taken away from thought when he returns to the table, dressed in a black set of silk pyjamas. 

“What’s your story?”

Your eyelashes flutter, taken aback by the sudden inquiry. Raising your head, you push the now cold rice to the side and glance at the man across from you, fingers interlocked in wait. 

You’re shocked at the simplicity of it. The lack of accusations are a breath of fresh air when it comes to his words, typically cold fronted and dripping with malice. You would expect him to be angry still, perhaps even worse, giving that you lied, but you can feel the genuine curiosity lingering within. He seems to want to understand.

“I joined the IPC when I was young, almost ten years ago.” You start, fighting the urge to snap away from his gaze. “In my second year, word was out that there was trouble on Sigonia. It was thought that the IPC had it under control, but everyone knew there was something else coming.”

You pause. Aventurine remains quiet, attentive.

“I took it upon myself to convince my superiors to send me to Sigonia, despite their warnings. But… the work we did there, it wasn’t enough. I could help no one under the bounds of the IPC, so I sought out the Katicans. No more bounds. I was on the inside, where I could do things my own way.”

“Such lovely people, weren’t they?” He questions, apathy leaking from deep within. “Didn’t have a single care in the world other than themselves. They wanted to see everything burn, the women, children.”

“I have never seen a deeper hatred than what lies within them.”

You stop, again, toying with your fingers. Aventurine’s silence beckons you to proceed.

“I could only help so many, and they all ended up dying anyway. There was no escaping them, they were ruthless.” Your voice trails off, shaking your head slightly at the recollection of dark days in the wasteland they call Sigonia. No horrors match the ones that took place there. “I couldn’t imagine what you went through, any of you. And still, you’re alive.”

A word softly chants in your head. Destiny.

“Ever since I was born, I knew what was made out for me was never good.” Aventurine says, a hint of irony in his voice. “I fell on black days without knowing what it was like to live on the other side, and it’s been like that since.”

Flashes of your past mix in with current thought. You remember them, the Avign children, clinging to scraps of life even when it was evident their lives would soon end. Their eyes, just as brilliant as his, drowned by crashing waves, yet afloat on the prayer of hope. You imagine Aventurine was just like them, and you understand. Anger breeds and it seethes.

“How do you control it?” Such a simple question, yet so many answers. 

“I put it all into risk. Every single last bit of it. I gambled, and I won.” His pointer finger gently hits the table, and he raises his hand to wave it through the air. “I survive, and I bet again.”

“A bold motto, I must say.”

A small smile graces his features, shrugging lightheartedly.

“Luck seems to be on my side.”

You look to the side at the sound of a crack, noticing that rain has started to fall. The sky is obscured by deep grays, and the rumble beckons you to the sliding door separating you from the balcony. The crash of drops on concrete is soothing to your ears, bestowing a peace upon your heart you’ve failed to find for a while now. The serenity thickens as Aventurine steps to your side, the hues in a ring of his eyes reflecting the storm outside.

“I didn’t rain much back then.” He muses, gaze following the slow drizzle of fallen streaks on the balcony’s edge. “A privilege I can keep alive, now that I see it so often.”

You look to the side, meeting Aventurine’s eyes halfway. The corners of his lips turn up as he looks past you, covering his mouth as he stifles a yawn.

“Almost forgot about the bed.” He laughs, running a hand over his lower face. “You can have it, I’ll be okay on the floor.”

“Absolutely not!” You counter, head tilting in defiance. “I’ll be fine on the floor.”

“That would be extremely impolite of me.”

“As it would be for me…”

“Will you please just sleep on the bed?”

“I brought extra pillows! I’ll be more comfortable than you on the floor.”

Aventurine stops, sending you a half lidded look. You walk over to your suitcase, swiftly pulling the two large pillows you packed out, holding them at your sides. He walks over to you, snatching a pillow out from one of your arms before walking toward the bed.

“Or, how about this?” He shoves your pillow on top of the hotel provided one. “We put the extra pillows on the bed, and we both take a half.”

You purse your lips, and shrug in reason. After patting your pillow into place, you climb onto the bed, turning on your side to ensure you’re only taking up half of the bed. 

As you land on your other shoulder, you nearly touch noses with Aventurine. He chuckles, eyebrows raising in a teasing manner.

“It’s not often someone gets the chance to be this close to me.”

You groan, tugging the coarse blanket to your chest as you flip to your front. Stifling a few chuckles, Aventurine turns so his back is facing you.

Within a few minutes, quiet snores begin to drift through your ears. You sigh, and roll your eyes. And yet, only peace visits you in your dreams.

–

There have been few nights of your stay in Salsotto without rain. You’ve grown accustomed to the melodic pad of morning to the erratic roar of the night. This night is different, however, as dew is high in the air but the clouds of the afternoon are white, tainted with swirls of pink that bode better weather. 

You fumble with the pearls on your neck, carefully positioning them so they rest on your collarbone. All IPC events require a clearance of wear that is above the standard grade of formal, nothing short of extravagant, explaining the fine tailored suit you wear over your dress. Ivory on cream, a palette that bodes well when making business deals. 

Heels click on pavement, Tumbleweed’s National Museum in sight. Golden lights cast the establishment in an elegant glow, and the stream of classical cello welcomes your ears as you approach. Welcoming smiles are given your way as you enter the building, and you start a long night of shaking hands and business chatter with the esteemed mechanical aristocrat Screwllum. 

Leisure chats of the Genius Society’s next project flow in and out of wine chutes, with gentle opera joining new deals of funding. Another hand shake bodes your farewell to a philanthropist from the Herta Space Station, and you take a seat at one of the tables nearby, attempting to gather your thoughts. Sipping on a glass of sparkling rose, you start jotting down tonight’s business proposals onto your phone.

“Having fun?”

You look up, offering a smile toward your temporary hotelmate as you pull the chair next to you back.

“Was wondering when I’d run into you, Aventurine.” You say, clinking glasses with the blonde. “How many deals have you clinched tonight?”

“More than you, I bet.” You scrunch your nose, folding your arms after sliding your phone his way. Aventurine takes a look through your notes, smile expanding on his face as he progresses.

“...And it seems I would be right.” He exclaims, holding up two full hands. “Don’t feel bad. It’s the natural charm.”

“Mhm. Super natural, and not annoying at all.” You quip, earning a light jab in the shoulder.

Your past two weeks with Aventurine had proved to be an easier feat than you had thought. Beside the snoring (that you had learned to tune out), he had served as a good source of company, squandering your worries of lingering grudges as you spent more time around one another. You were grateful he had the will in his heart to see the reason behind what you had done, although you were a little surprised to see that he had forgiven you with such ease. 

Now, to you, he seemed to be an easy soul forced to carry burdens that were undeserving of him. 

“Hey.”

You’re roused from your thoughts by the gentle tap of Aventurine’s foot against your heel. He cocks his head, and you’re suddenly aware of the soft serenade filling the room, sung by an artist famous for this piece.

“Let’s get our minds off of business for a while. Care to dance?”

He straightens his jacket before standing up, beckoning you to do the same. You accept the hand outstretched, threatening to roll your eyes as Aventurine lays his other on your back, guiding you to the floor.

“Trying to show off?” 

Aventurine slowly spins you into a shroud of spotlight, laughing when your eyes go wide from the precision of his arms slowing you back down. 

“Of course.”

A look is shared between the two of you, and the dance begins. You recognize the piece, Seid Umschlungen, Millionen! (Be Embraced, You Millions!), and fall into a sort of waltz, slow, quick, slow. Your feet move in a symphony of chirping violin and cello vibrato, swirling carefully around other dancers as you step from box to box. 

The music quiets in a moment of repose, and you slow, winding your hands around his neck as you sway, in wait. 

“What’s with the long face?”

The question catches you off guard, as you weren’t aware that your thoughts had reflected off of your face. Lips pursing, you wonder whether taking the chance and ruining the moment is worth it, but the question nags deep within, festering like a cancer that will not cease until it is freed. 

“Do you forgive me?”

Strings echo and rise; Aventurine fits a hand behind your back before spinning you into dance. His eyebrows are furrowed lightly, as if your question had caught him off guard in some sort of way, but you both knew it was coming. Trust is an uncertain entity, not easily won or wagered, never certain in whether it’s attained or lost. Forgiveness is a trial for trust, and within inquiry lie a question of deeper truth that never made it to the surface

Do you hate me, Aventurine?

There have been many times in the passing days where you’ve been questioned about your time in Sigonia-IV. A test to determine whether your actions deserved merit. Recounting stories of countless lives you worked tirelessly to save at the risk of your own. Gallons of blood stained on your hands from the guilty, those whose karma ran the empty river beds of the desert red. 

So much, and yet nothing at all. It’s as if life is out to play some game of twisted fate, as you see all of the lives you could not save in the man right before you. The brand slightly hidden by his collar and wispy blonde, jewelry glittering at his wrists, irises that shine in the darkest of nights. Bewitching, yet so alive. 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He says, after some time. “You did a brave thing, I would be a fool to condemn you for it.”

Elation. It’s the feather touch of his hands, graceful in the way they dip you, nearly stopping time as you lay suspended. Your eyes lock, and you nearly drown in the glow of lavender and maya that stare back. Slowly, you feel one of his hands leave your back, dipping in his suit pocket and coming to rest in your vision. 

“Their memory is always alive somewhere. It’s up to us to keep it.”

You’re lifted to stand, and, amidst a rather slow spin, Aventurine pins the turquoise meteorite you’d thought was long gone onto the span of dress fabric above your chest. The resounding smile shared is trust.

You twirl and sink until the song comes to an end, stopping in a hold of hands and interlocked legs as orchestra is overtaken by voice. In the midst of fading spotlight, your breath evens out, and you find yourself following the gambler’s hand to escape the noise, elbows brushing on a balcony railing as you stare out into the fading daylight.

The sky is tinged with the baby blue of afternoon, arising into a deep interweave of violet and blush. A small, red casino chip flips between Aventurine’s fingers, rolling to sit between his pointer and thumb in short pauses.

“Got any tricks up your sleeve, gambler?”

Aventurine tilts his head to the side, invigorated by the rise of your lips, challenging, daring. The game you propose has risk, but what is life without taking leaps blind? Aventurine is sure he can see you now, after all.

With a flip of the chip and a wave of his hand, the red disappears, and a cool sensation lands firmly on your lips. His face is inches away from yours, fingers gently pressing against the chip that severs the distance between you.

“There are tricks to any risk, as long as you know what you’re doing.”

You raise your hand, sliding the chip from your mouth and palming it. When he doesn’t move, you tug on his collar, chin tilting upward to press your lips to his. The sensation is warm, gentle, as if you tread on ice that threatens to shatter. Honey sears your tongue, and you revel in the touch of his lips, soft as the velvet of his tie.

The moment is all too short, yet your mouth feels numb as you break away. In a moment of silence, you take the hand that sits lightly clamped around your wrist, sliding the chip in his palm and closing his fingers.

“I think I’ll be gambling a lot with you, Aventurine.”

His face moves closer, and you look down for a moment, noticing the hand that sits behind his back.

“I look forward to it.”

–

INTERASTRAL PEACE CORPORATION, STRATEGIC INVESTMENT HQ | TWO MONTHS LATER

Knock, knock.

“Coming.”

The door opens in fluid motion, revealing a room cast in gloom, tan shade, blinds drawn. 

“Hey, Aven.” You sigh, placing a chaste kiss on the blonde’s cheek. “Long day?”

“Long day.” He mirrors, offering to take the stack of papers off of your hands. You accept, slipping into the chair across from his desk. “Are you done for today?”

“Mhm.” 

Aventurine sits in his desk chair, shrugging the navy coat he sports onto the back. You stretch your arms behind your back, watching as deft hands undo the cross hatched tie representing the cornerstones from his collar. As he sets the piece down, his office phone starts to buzz, and he groans.

“Hello, this is Aventurine… Uh huh, what time?” He draws circles into ebony, holding the phone to his shoulder as he reaches for a notepad. However, as he clicks the pen in his hand, he nearly drops the phone, clearly startled. “Can you repeat that? Si- okay. I’m coming.”

In a flurry of movement, he stands, tie and coat snatched. 

“We have to go, right now.”

His tone is impatient, brimming with anxiety and unwilling to contest. You blink a few times before following him out of his office, grabbing his coat to hold onto as he fits his tie back to his shirt. The walk is silent, save a quiet “thank you” when you hand the coat over and the click of shoes on tile. Your nerves rise as you move, watching the way he frets with his gloves, tugging on the ends repeatedly. 

In a matter of minutes, you arrive at the boardroom of the IPC’s Strategic Investment Department, stopping at the edge of the table as Jade turns around, followed by a concerned looking Topaz.

“Ah, Aventurine. What a surprise, I was sure not to include your name in the list of attendees tonight.“She sends a look to the white haired cornerstone, before directing her gaze to you. “Unfortunately, ranks below P40 are prohibited from attending this meeting. Guards, please see her out.”

You push against the guard that seizes your wrist, but are unable to resist as more come to his aid. After having the door shoved in your face, you’re dragged to the hallway outside of the meeting hall, forced to sit in wait. 

30 minutes. Another 30. An hour before the doors open, with Aventurine first, Topaz following close behind. He rushes past you, eyes on the ground, gone within seconds. Concern etches your features as Topaz runs up to you, lips pursed in distress,

“Aventurine-” She pauses, hand on her chest as she catches her breath. “Please go after him. You’re the only one that he’ll see now, after what just happened.”

“What happened?”

At your inquiry, she shakes her head, nodding her head toward the direction Aventurine took off in.

“It’s best you hear it from him. But, please, go see him tonight, he needs someone who’s close to his heart.”

Worry is quick to seep into your features, but you nod. A quick visit to his office and you’re off, taking the next jet off of Pier Point, to Klimt Republic. Weaving through streets and bullet trails full of life, you arrive in the heart of Klimt just two hours later, standing on the penthouse floor of an apartment complex worth more than the entire block you’re on.

Knock, knock.

Silence. You hesitate, and knock again. 

The shuffling of feet hit the floor, and you wait in anticipation, hands firmly at your sides as the noise stops. After a few moments, the door slowly opens, and you sigh in relief.

Aventurine stands, slightly hunched against the doorframe, hair disheveled, eyes red and irritated.

“Aven, what happ-”

A pair of hands seize your wrist, tugging you inside and slamming the door behind you. 

“Not now.” Your eyes widen at the plea in his voice, whole with a basal need that makes your chest tighten. “Please, just, make me forget about it right now.”

He looms over you, yet the shadow he casts is the antonym of threatening. Fear reeks off of him like vodka, as tears brim on his waterline. The feeling spreads to your skin like wildfire, and you feel him shake as you take his face in your hands, breathing shallow and scared.

The first taste of his lips is sweet, but the salt of his tears is quick to sink in. Clumsy and trembling, your bodies rock and hit walls as you make your way to his bedroom. You throw his coat to the side as he does yours, pushing him down onto his bed as you break for air. 

Aventurine’s hair flows out around him as he falls onto the mattress, shrouding him as a halo would. You chase after him, littering his neck with soft bites that elicit soft groans from the skin beneath. You unbutton half of his shirt before diving for his collarbone, reveling in the whines that respond as you nip and bruise. 

His hands reach for your pants, and you stop him before he can reach for your panties. 

“Ah-ah, hands behind your head.” Your voice pools out smooth, running a hand down his shirt. “Just relax and let me take care of you.” 

Gently pinning his hands above him, you let go, and he complies. You reward him with a kiss, messy and careless, pulling a string of saliva between your lips when you leave them. Your free hand pushes hair out of his eyes while the other works on the zipper of his slacks, watching as his fingers lock together as you apply pressure.

A shudder leaves Aventurine’s lips as you pull his boxers down, hand gently running along the length of his dick. Teeth tug at lips as you spit on your hand, working at his cock while running your free fingers along your folds. His neck lifts up as your hands move faster, and you grin, choking the noises that threaten to spill from your mouth at the display before you.

A sight like heaven, an angel laid out for worship. Aventurine’s skin is coated in a soft sheen of sweat that shines in the dim light, hand laid over one eye whilst the other remains barely open. Under the mix of hues that resemble wild fields of flowers, blush coats his cheekbones, a light to the darkness that blooms on his neck. The vulnerability of it makes your heart soar, and you feel a fire ignite in the depths of your being that fails to stoke.

The hand that toys with your clit lifts, prodding at Aventurine’s mouth as you lower yourself on his cock. Muffled whines vibrate around your fingers, and you moan at the fullness that envelops you. You swirl your fingers in his mouth, biting on your cheek as his tongue wraps around them, sucking on the sweet taste of you. 

His hands abruptly reach up, fingers winding and tangling in hair as they pull you down, replacing fingers with lips. The sensation is hot, as if an unquenchable balm has set your skin alight. 

“Feel good?”

“What kind of- ughh- question is that?” 

You clench around him as if it's instinct, and Aventurine calls your name as he would a prayer. His moans are akin to song, divine in melody, alluring in a way that shuts your mind off from anything else but him. One of his hands leaves your hair, fingers clumsily clamping around your own, holding you like fine china. 

The stretch of his dick does little to quench the hunger within, you crave more, a devout worshiper crying a hymn of need. Your motion becomes erratic, a twist of limbs and friction that siphons tears that streak down your cheeks, falling to mix in with the sweat on your lover’s face.

“Gonna-” Aventurine chokes on his own words, eyes shut harshly as he blinks back ecstasy. “Cum.”

Your words are lost to you, only managing to groan in response as Aventurine pulls you back to him. His lips seal over yours in a searing kiss, arms winding around your back to hold you still as your orgasm shakes you. White light flashes through closed eyes as you spasm around his dick, mixing with the cum that leaks inside of you. 

The room is quiet, save the howling wind of night and the dance of unstable breath. Blankets shuffle as you drop to Aventurine’s side, allowing him to drape your discarded shirt over your bare chest. Time seems to cease as you meet his gaze, touch serene as the plains of distant worlds as he encourages you to come closer. You accept, eyes closing for a moment, feeling the warm fan of his breath over your nose.

“The IPC is funding a project to excavate Sigonia.” The silence breaks, peace shatters and your eyes snap open. “Turquoise meteorites are rare, so they’ll scrape the whole planet dry until every last piece is gone.”

Your face falls, corners of your lips pulling downward. Aventurine’s eyes are half lidded, seemingly already accepting the fate of the planet he calls home. He refuses to look your way, eyes focused somewhere past you, the sorrow spreads and leaks into your soul as it opens further. A place so full of hatred and loss, yet a place that he will never be able to let go of. It burrows within the deepest neurons, refusing to snap and forget.

“You have to say something, Aven.” You pull at his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Whatever you have to do, I’ll help you.”

“The IPC doesn’t have time to listen to Avgin.” He sighs, hope stale on his breath. “Not even if it's the last one alive.”

You still, fingers falling to rest against his cheek. Aventurine’s eyes close, brows furrowing lightly against pale skin.

“Sigonia will fall, and only Kakavasha will remain.”

Defeat. It seems that what events occurred in that meeting room left no room for conversation. Guilt flows through your veins like it’s replaced the red, and your chest aches, latching onto the horror that no doubt holds sovereignty in his head.

Kakavasha. Blessed by the heavens yet cursed by the living world. Such a beautiful name that deserves no hell it endures. 

Amidst the quietude, Aventurine’s hand slithers under the blankets, latching onto your wrist. He traces skin, knuckles brushing against your own, coming to rest intertwined.

“Can we try something?”

You nod, and your hand is slowly lifted to the air, palm against palm between your chests. You’ve seen this motion back on Sigonia, yet it’s always remained distant to you, and the words echo in obscurity. 

“I’ll go through it once, and we can do it together.”

You nod, once more. Aventurine closes his eyes for a moment, reciting a prayer lost to you in time.

“May the Mother Goddess thrice close her eyes for you… keeping your blood eternally pulsing. May your journey be forever peaceful… and your schemes be forever concealed.”

A brief pause passes. You sigh in unison, and lock eyes. A voice whispers within the depths of your mind, and you smile.

The memory is always alive somewhere. It’s up to us to keep it.

“May the Mother Goddess thrice close her eyes for you… keeping your blood eternally pulsing. May your journey be forever peaceful… and your schemes be forever concealed.”

As the last words drift off of your lips, you bend your fingers, slotting them between his. Aventurine shares your sentiment; hope flashed in the gentle smile that graces his lips. Your eyes wander, and notice that a single tear trails down his face, disappearing into his skin as it rolls.

Outside, you hear the crack of thunder. You pull Aventurine in, and in your clutch, the downpour begins.

–

Some months later…

The chatter of voices on the phone rouses you from sleep, rubbing a hand over your eyes in annoyance as you come to. Light spills through drawn curtains and open glass doors, filtering the room in hues of honey and hazel. 

“Mhm. Alright, I understand. Let’s schedule the interview for today.”

Songs of canaries and mourning doves flow through the air, and you sit up, raising a hand to block out the sun’s gaze. Aventurine sets his phone down on the bedside table, stifling a yawn with his hand. You roll onto your side, hand propped up onto your chin as you soak in the sight of your lover.

His hair is slightly ruffled from sleep, bangs astray and cast into his eyes. Only the top button of his sleep shirt is buttoned, leaving lean, sun kissed skin on display. 

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” You roll your eyes, allowing him to pull you in for a kiss. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“Mhm.” You hum, knowing full well tonight has been one of the worst nights you’ve slept yet. Aventurine sees right through you, but chooses to say nothing, opting to pull you forward so half of your body drapes over him.

Today Aventurine leaves for Penacony. And, seeing as he was called in for a meeting, he’s probably leaving even sooner now. 

He seems to read your thoughts, offering a comforting peck to the corner of your lips in apology. Your hands card through his hair, head resting against his collarbone. 

You have your apprehensions about Penacony, having heard whispers on the streets of mysterious disappearances of people in the world’s famous dreamscape. The IPC has had a limited number of run-ins with the family, leading you to assume a recent grounds of suspicion has arised, and Aventurine was chosen as the solution. In his eyes, it’s just another gamble of life or death.

You’re roused from your thoughts by a tap on your cheek, making you look up at him.

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.” His words do little to soothe you, but you listen regardless. “The risks I take are always foolproof.”

Risk. It’s the word Aventurine lives by, a motto that claws at your heart when he’s gone. A reality that spills tears when he closes the door to your apartment, leaving only the ache of your heart in his absence. A danger that never guarantees the next time he chases his destiny will not be his last. 

You will never fight to change it, because that’s all it is. Destiny.

His phone rings, and the two of you groan before he gets up and tells the person on the other line that he’s on his way. You watch from his side of the bed as he throws his clothes on, grabbing two packed suitcases from the side of the bed before bending over to give you a kiss. The touch of his lips is bittersweet, nearly taunting as it is over before it even begins. You peck him again, running a hand over his hairline to straighten his bangs.

“Be safe out there, Aven.”

He smiles, so radiant it rivals the sun and all that it shines on. You think yourself blessed to see it survive.

“I will. Luck is always on my side.”

And he leaves. You turn to the window, awaiting the rain.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall. 

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place. 

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long. 

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train. 

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive. 

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles. 

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus. 

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice. 

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear. 

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business. 

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories. 

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk. 

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?” 

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone? 

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence. 

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape. 

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93. 

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.” 

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin. 

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar. 

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two. 

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors. 

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work? 

That was sure to go over well.  

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift. 

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils. 

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar. 

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one. 

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier. 

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn. 

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire. 

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase. 

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet. 

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot. 

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile. 

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you. 

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you. 

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended. 

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back. 

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.” 

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when  he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line. 

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it. 

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you.  Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again. 

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied. 

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions. 

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again. 

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

--

taglist:

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[dcxdpdabbles]

If possible could you do the Batkids summoning the Ghost King on a dare?

It starts with Tim because most insane things do. Kon had sent him a link to a trend, asking him to try it the next time Young Justice got together.

He made the mistake of clicking on the link while sitting near his siblings in the gaming room. The audio is also on full blast because he didn't realize his headphones were out of battery.

Thus while waiting for his turn to play Mario Kart, a loud male moan echoes from his speakers. Tim freezes in his seat, staring at his phone in horrified betrayal, as seven heads snap in his direction.

"Ugh, Timmy? Those are videos you should be watching alone" Dick says with half a teasing smirk. "I know you're growing up and are curious about-"

"It's not like that! It's a summoning circle!" Tim yelps, turning the phone around. On his screen, five male teenagers sit in a circle, each holding hands. Moaning. The caption reads, "Summoning the Ghost King! What's your offer?".

"What the hell?" Jason squints as the teenagers in the video burst into laughter. They jeer and taunt each other good naturally, indicating the random moaning was in jest.

"Oh, I know that trend!" Cullen chirps from the floor. He's been hugging the bowl of chips all night, laying down on his stomach to keep it guarded from the others. "Basically, you try to summon the Ghost King by offering something random. Guess he doesn't respond to human sacrifices or the typical stuff, so people have been getting creative. I once saw a group of girls who burned their training bras and offered the King the ashes. The point is to pick the weirdest thing you can think of."

"That's the stupidest thing I have ever heard. We have to try it." Steph announces, standing up. She pushes the coffee table out of the way. The rest of their siblings, who weren't as into the speeding game, perked up in interest. "What do we need?"

"Um," Tim scrolls through the comments. "We need four never before lite candles, each placed in the positions of the four directions. We have to sit crossed leg in a circle holding hands and call out to the King with a poem, and at the end, we make our offering."

Harper springs up. "I got some candles! Do they matter if it's scented?"

Tim checks online. "It's not recommended, but it's fine if they are."

"This is idiotic! Attempting to make contact with the Ghost King is far too dangerous. I shall take no part in this foolery!" Damian cuts in, face twisted into a- surprisingly- nervous frown. His hands are clasped tightly over each other while his eyes roam the room looking for unseen threats. If Tim didn't know any better, he said the brat was scared.

"Aw Dami, if you don't want to do a summons, we can play the game of life or something. It's okay to be scared of ghosts" Dick says, placing his hand on the kid's shoulder. He was obviously trying to comfort the kid but it has the opposite effect.

"I am not scared of a mere ghost!" Damian hisses. "I am merely stating we should not bother forces well out of our leagues!"

Jason snorts, planting himself on the ground as Harper returns. She had four different color candles, purple, blue, black, and green. After consulting with Cass- a human compass-she placed them facing the east, west, south, and north.

"Why did you make that disgusting noise Todd?" Damian demands narrowing his eyes at the striking man.

"Just admit you're scared of ghosts, brat. No one is going to judge you for it."

"I said I was not scared of a mere ghost. The Ghost King is far more powerful then-"

"Alright, alright. Damian is too much of a scary cat to play, but who else is in?" Steph cuts him off, a knowing glint in her eyes. The youngest flushes angrily before he marches between the green and black candle and sits with his legs crossed. A nasty scowl is playing on his lips, likely not noticing the high-five Jason and Steph share for getting him to join.

Cass gracefully falls right next to Damian, offering the younger boy a small. His scowl lessens just a little. Cullen crawls his way over, pressing the bowl of chips to his hip protectively once he's sitting up. He ended up between the green and the purple candle, offering Cass a smile. Harper lands next to Cullen, cracking her neck as if preparing for a fight.

Dick does an unnecessary flip over the couch to take the place between the purple and blue candles. Next to him, Steph sits, her knee bumping the blue candle slightly. Jason struts over to sit next to Steph right between the blue and black candle. Duke shares the space with him, giving just a slightly nervous chuckle as Tim and Babs push the black and green candle apart a little to squeeze into though Babs remains in her chair.

"Alright, so the person with the candle on their right side has to light it. Do it at the same time. Once that happens, we join hands and do chat about the poem. Says only one person has to say the words, but if you want, I can send the link in the family group chat so we can all say it?" Tim waits to see them consider it, but Cass excited nodding has him copying the link he found on an online forum. A few dings go around the room as everyone checks their phones. "Now we have to decide on a sacrificial offering."

"We should do our most embarrassing secrets," Jason suggests.

"No, no, our fabulous hair!" Dick perks up, flipping said hair in a dramatic flair.

"It has to be something we all share," Tim says, eyeing Duke's short hair.

The other teenager makes an offended noise. "My hair is fabulous!"

"We offer the gay." Cullen cuts in. The rest turn to look at him as he wiggles his fingers. "Ohhhhhh! We're all fruity~! Spooky!"

"Babs isn't," Dick puts in only to see his best friend shake her hand in a so-and-so motion. He gapes at her before throwing his head back and laughing "We really do flock together!"

"So we agree? The gay?" Tim tries to say seriously, but his lips are twitching too much, trying to suppress a smile. There is agreement around the circle. He gives on a single node before passing around the matches Harper had brought. "How are we going to do this, though. Do we just shout, "I'm gay," or are we giving material things?"

"Let's write our gay awakening on a piece of people," Babs suggests grabbing her bag from where it hands on her chair handles. She tucks out a spiral notebook and a few pens. "I read that summoning needs something physical."

Everyone agrees as they pass along the notebook, writing down their awakening. Tim raises a brow at Damian's "Jon Kent" but doesn't call him out for it. After all, Conner Kent goes under his little brother's writing in his own writing.

He does wonder who Danny Fenton is, but knows better than to ask Cass about her life before the manor.

"Okay, let's do this! On the count of three- one-two-three!" Tim calls, watching Damian, Harper, Steph, and Duke simultaneously lite at the candle. They all hold hands, reading off phones that are prompted up by either their legs or kickstands on cases.

"We call upon the Undead King,

The one who bridges the realms,

The one who wields the Ring,

The one who will lead dies and breathes!"

There is a moment of silence where Tim swears he feels a slight shock along his fingertips, but it passes too quickly for him to care. Seeing as he is the ring leader, he calls out to the air. "Oh great King of the Dead, my siblings and I offer you a list of our gay awakening!"

"Stop, stop!" The youngest yells, leaping to his feet. His eyes are wild, scrambling to a far wall like a cornered animal. "No! He's coming!"

"Coming out the closet, like mama, I like boys, I like pecs

Like the arms when they flex!" Stephs suddenly sings, swaying in her seat. Everyone laughs before joining, and Tim wonders if they should have recorded this when suddenly Damian shrieks.

"Damian, who-"

The candles' flames all turn green as a haunting voice echoes through the room. "Your sacrifice has been accepted."

Tim's mouth drops open as the flames rise into the air forming a portal of liquid green. Familiar green. No wonder Daimain had been so scared. That was Lazarus Pit water. This meant this was the real deal, not just a random trend popularized by stupid teenagers.

Leaping Lizards Batman.

"What-what do we do!?" Cullen yelps as a burst of wind rips around the room, throwing everyone back. A laugh that sounds far too much like the Joker is heard through the portal as everyone tries to get into a fighting position with the wind pushing against them.

A head of snow-white hair peaks out and they are greeted by a laughing teenager. "A gay awaking sacrifice list! That's hilarious!"

"Who are you!" Tim hears Jason demand over the howling wings.

Another laugh, but this time, it sounds like clicking ice cubes is a response. "I'm Phantom!"

Tim has a second to see, wide green glowing eyes before the ghost reaches down, snatches their list, and zaps away.

Cass falls to her knees with a look of horror. "They know"

"I told you this was idiotic!" Damian screams, shaking so hard he looks like he will burst into tears in only a few seconds. Dick rushes over to him, pulling the sniffing boy into his arms. "We must never do this again!"

No one knows what to do in the wake of actually succeeding in calling the Ghost King or watching Dmaian cry from fear.

A ringtone plays from Cass's phone, breaking the ill silence. Tim catches a glimpse of "Danny" with two little hearts before his sister grabs the cell and leaps through an open window with what could only be a squeal.

"What the fuck just happened?" Cullen asks, but Tim can only offer him a shrug.

[dear-ao3]

ok so considering im decently sure a good chunk of the f1 drivers dont actually like driving road cars on roads (fair) i propose a new grand prix to determine the real Best Driver.

behold. the rush hour grand prix.

1 lap. at rush hour on a friday night. all the usual normal commuters and terrible drivers are still on the road along with all the drivers. in the rain. everyone drives a car of their choice. they have to count out all their tolls using change, no one gets ez pass. and you get disqualified if you veer from the instructions (no wrong turns!)

and where does this take place?

thats right.

new jersey. (and new york city) (but mostly new jersey)

here is the proposed track:

we start and end on route 22 right outside the staples. a terrible awful road that would cause harm to any driver, especially european ones. route 22 is so terrible because there is a long stretch that has a center median with shops in it, so theres shops on the right the left and in the center with u turns every 500 feet.

they go east on 22 towards us route 1 and 9 and, thats right, newark liberty international airport. here they have to do a loop around all of the departure terminals before exiting and heading towards jersey city on route 78.

they take route 78 through the holland tunnel, which is a hilarious tunnel to go through as you can literally blink and miss the signs because theyre so small.

upon arriving in new york city they will head towards the canal street station, doing an awful little loopy loop to take hudson street to 8th avenue. new york will prove a challenge for many of them because every other street and avenue there is pretty much a one way in the opposite way.

theyre going to turn right on 23rd street and take it three blocks towards the flatiron building on fifth avenue before doing another turn around and heading back up sixth avenue

here theyre going to turn left on 40th street, then right on 7th avenue then immediately right again on 41st street and then back to 6th avenue which they'll take all the way to the bottom of central park. here they'll turn left onto 59th street then go around columbus circle, exiting on broadway and then going right onto 57th street, which they'll then take down to 11th avenue, then after. few blocks cut over to the west side highway (12 avenue) and then they'll get off at 40th street and enter, you guessed it, the lincoln tunnel.

they'll exit the lincoln and get onto route 3 which they'll take down to route 120 and then they'll do a single doughnut in the parking lot at the american dream mall (a terrible place) before getting onto, you guessed it! 95!! they'll take 95 (devil highway) to 78 to the garden state parkway before getting back on route 22, doing a quick hairpin turn at one the first u turn and then end up straight back where they started. outside the staples.

i think maybe 3 people would finish the whole thing. logan sargeant, being the only american, would come in first. fernando alonso takes second and valtteri bottas takes third.

[bookofthegear]

When you went off to college, your parents presented you with a fancy Swiss Army knife. It has the knife, the other knife, the corkscrew, the flat AND Phillips screwdrivers, the tiny magnifying glass, the bottle opener, the other other knife, the file, and the very small saw, which should allow you to cut down any tree in the forest in approximately six months. (You have, however, lost the toothpick.)

Jimmy perches on top of your walking stick and gestures to the crack in the wall with one wing. “This entryway seems pretty stable,” he says. “Once you get deeper in, things move around a lot.”

You step through the crack in the wall and immediately see a wall covered in graffiti. The most interesting bit, so far as you’re concerned, is a white chalk mark of an arrow and a circle. You immediately recognize hobo sign, which you took a class in. While there are some questions as to how authentic the signs are to actual hobo culture, they were popular among dungeon delvers some fifty years ago.

This mark means “Don’t bother going this way.” The arrow is pointing east.

“There’s nothing much that way,” Jimmy confirms. “Just a painting of the Madonna of Leaves.”

You go west instead, and after some turns, you eventually reach a staircase going down, into a large room. Jimmy regales you with descriptions of what lies through the various doors, like a very small tour guide. “That way goes to some clockwork bees and eventually a scary door…nobody’s ever managed to get it open…that way is sometimes a creepy horse skull and sometimes a corridor that goes deeper in…looks like it’s the skull today…” He trails off, gazing south, where a ramp slopes down. “And then there’s that room.”

[harveyspictures]

Scenes from Pictou Island 8/6/2022

[strawberrysturniolo]

goal part 2 // hockey!chris

summary: your boyfriend tries to take some pressure off you by taking you on a late night ice skating date

part one, part three

“Chris,” I groan. “I have a final tomorrow. I really shouldn’t go out.”

“The fact that you have a final is the exact reason why you should go out,” he argues. We’ve been on the phone for ten minutes, the entire call consisting of Chris trying to persuade me to ditch my studying and head to wherever his plan is to take us. That's part of the issue. If I knew what he wanted to do, maybe I wouldn’t be so hesitant to leave tonight. “You’ve been so stressed out this semester. Let’s end it right.”

I go silent, weighing my options. When I don’t answer fast enough, Chris continues his methods of convincing me. 

“Come onnnnn. I’ll come pick you up and we can go have some fun.”

I sigh, unable to win this argument. 

“Pick you up in 15?”

“See you then.”

“Bye baby.”

I tidy up my study space, which consists of scattered notes and multicolored pens, color-coding different sections of my pages. 

After my room is cleaned to my liking, which is just enough to where it doesn’t look like a tornado came through, I pull on a sweatshirt and another jacket over top, considering the weather in the North East is below freezing. 

I run down the steps to my apartment complex, finding Chris in his car out front. The light hum of rap music playing seeps out of the car, and I’m met with the sound of no other than his favorite artist when I open the door. 

The door opening catches his attention. He looks up from his phone, a soft smile on his face. “Hi.”

“Hi, pretty boy.” I cup his chin with my left hand as I buckle myself with the other, kissing his lips. When I pull back, his eyes are still closed, and his smile is only growing. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he finally says as he puts the car in drive and peels out of my lot. His hand alternates between holding my hand and my thigh, sometimes drawing circles on my knee, other times squeezing my hand and playing with my fingers. It’s obvious that his love language is physical touch. It’s like his battery dies if our bodies aren’t connected in some way, whether it’s him thrusting into me or him giving my hand soft kisses while he drives. I can feel him recharge just by touching me, and something about that makes me feel powerful. 

The drive is silent on our part, other than the music playing lowly out of the speakers. I don’t ask question, but rather stare at him as he makes each turn, continuing down paths I’m unfamiliar with, insisting it’s the backway. Eventually, we pull up to a place I am very familiar with.

“The hockey rink?” I ask, watching him unbuckle and get out of the car. I quickly do the same. 

“Yeah,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. He pulls his beanie down over his ears, which have turned a soft shade of red in the cold. 

I jog to catch up with him. “Isn’t it closed for the night?”

“Mhm,” he hum, but he finds a way inside anyway. I follow him anxiously as we head to the locker room, where all of his hockey gear is stored. He grabs his own skates, tells me to wait for him to return, and comes back with skates for me. 

“How’d you get those?” I ask timidly. 

He tosses them down at the floor, then kneels down to help me tie them. “From the rentals.” I don’t bother making a point of the fact that no student is there working the rentals, and not only are we trespassing, but we’re also stealing. My anxiety is skyrocketing. I was already worried about my final and making sure I had ample time to study, and now I have my boyfriend breaking and entering with me as his stupid sidekick. “We’re fine, babe,” he assures me as if he can read my mind. “Do you know how often I come here to practice after hours? As long as we don’t fuck anything up, we’re fine.” 

“So no stealing the zamboni?” I tease, starting to loosen up. 

He breathes out a laugh, then stands after tying my skates before he rests his foot on a bench to tie his own. “Definitely not.”

He holds my hand as I struggle to walk properly on my skates. Once we make it to the ice, he takes my hands carefully, holding them securely as he steps backwards onto the rink. 

“I got your hands,” he assures me. We’ve had numerous ice skating dates since we started going out, but still, my hockey boyfriend is unable to teach me how to maneuver on the ice. 

I nod uneasily, trying to think of anything other than falling. Chris holds my arms, skating backwards slowly, pulling my body with him. I probably look ridiculous, but he’s grinning, happy to be sharing his safe space with me. 

“There you go!” he cheers. “You got it, baby!” 

I nod, smiling a bit, trying to lift my own feet and skate by myself. It works the first few strides, until I lose my balance and start to go down. He catches me before I can fall, hooking his hands under my arms and pulling me back up.

“That was really good. You’re doing a lot better than when you started.”

In no way am I trying to become an olympic skater, but it would be nice if I could stand on my own two feet when skating with my boyfriend who has played hockey since he could walk. 

He continues to pull me around the ice, praising me for my attempts to take control of my own feet. Eventually, we lay down on the ice, one arm behind his head, and the other wrapped around me. We stare at the ceiling of the rink, a comfortable silence forming before I break it.

“What are we going to do when we graduate?”

This question has been eating at both of us. I’m not from this city, and he is. He has scouts looking at him for professional hockey, but he has no idea if he plans on playing in the NHL. I need to take advantage of getting my career started, but I don’t want to leave him. 

“We still have another year,” he reminds me, but I know at this point that this is his way of avoiding my question.

“I know but I don’t know if I plan on staying in Boston,” I add. 

He inhales sharply. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

I lift my head up, turning over to him so he can focus on me and our conversation. This is important, Chris. Please listen to me. “What's going to happen with us?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about this,” he repeats, his eyes burning holes in mine. I start to feel mine well up, and to stop myself from shedding a tear over his tone and the topic of conversation, I set my head on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat. 

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

It takes him a second, but he puts his hand on my back, his cheek pressing on the top of my head. “What final do you have tomorrow?” he asks, changing the subject. 

“Psychology.” The sight of my colorful notes are engraved in my brain. 

“What time?” 

“Noon.”

“Do you want to get lunch after?” he suggests. “My treat since you’ve been working so hard.”

“That sounds nice,” I nod. “How are your finals going?”

“I’m passing,” he answers shortly. “That’s all that matters.”

I give him a look. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. The thing with Chris is that he’s very smart, he just doesn’t care about college, and I really don’t think he would have gone if he hadn’t received a hockey scholarship. The only reasons his brothers attended were because they received the same scholarship, and they all wanted to stick together. He’s majoring in Entrepreneurship. His brain is flooded with creative ideas that it seemed like the best option for him to be able to study while pursuing hockey.

“The classes that matter are the ones I’m doing better in,” he says, noting his few business classes. “The stupid shit like history that has no relevance to my degree, that’s a different story. All that matters is that I pass so I can play hockey.”

He hates talking about school. I can see it on his face. He wishes I would change the subject. It’s obvious. 

I press a kiss to his soft lips. He returns the act, then shocks me when he speaks.  

“Stay here for Christmas.”

I feel my heart fall into my stomach, I try not to stumble over my words. “I can’t, I have to visit my family.”

“Do you think you could come like… the day after, sometime really close to Christmas?” he poses instead. “I wanna feel like we’re celebrating the day of.”

It warms my heart that he wants to celebrate this together. We haven’t discussed much of it. We’re not really the gift giving kind of couple. We care so much more about these moments, where it’s just us holding each other. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” I answer him, unable to give a clear answer. “I can definitely be here for new years.”

“Good,” he smiles, content. “You owe me a kiss.”

“Oh do I?” I tease, leaning up to him.

“Mhm.”

I press another kiss to his lips. His hands snake around my back, his tongue opening my lips before gliding against mine. A quiet moan leaves my mouth as his hand tangles in my hair. My hand holds his jaw, begging for more of him. 

That’s when I flinch at the sound of the main lights being flashed on.

Chris pulls back, his eyes widening as he struggles to stand up. “Oh fuck.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up, skating off the ice and dragging me behind him. “Shit shit shit shit shit,” he chants. 

“What is it?” I ask, trying to look behind me and find whoever is here.

Chris bends down in front of me, untying our laces and yanking our skates off our feet. I almost fall over at the force of him pulling mine off. 

“Okay, well,” he starts, already out of breath. “I may have lied a little.”

My eyes widen. “What??”

I follow his jog to the locker room where he grabs his things and tosses me my shoes, 

“I do come here sometimes to skate and clear my head,” he admits. “But that usually ends at 8, sometimes 9 depending on the day of the week.”

“What time is it now?” I ask, and when he turns his phone over to me, I feel my stomach drop. 

1:22 am.

How long were we here?

“You guys can’t be in here!” someone shouts from a distance. “Trespassing on property can result in expulsion, and if you aren’t a student, I could have you arrested!” 

My eyes widen, fear written all over me. 

“Shh. It’s fine. Just follow my lead,” he says. I nod once, then watch him dig around in his hockey bag. He pulls out his helmet, tugs it down on my head to cover my face, then pulls his own hoodie up. He grabs my hand, and on his cue, I’m sprinting out of the building with him. 

“Hey!” 

“Go go go!” Chris tells me. I run in front of him, turning around at the sound of hockey sticks clattering on the floor.

Chris yanked down a bucket of 20 hockey sticks, causing a mess in front of whoever is chasing us, giving us a few extra seconds to get out of here. 

I jump in the car, not even realizing that the helmet is still on my head. Chris’ wheels squeal as he speeds out of the parking lot, finally getting buckled once we’re away. The sound of his laughter snaps me back into it. 

“What?!” I ask him, annoyed that he could find this situation funny. 

“You look cute as fuck in my helmet.”

I reach for the face mask, trying to pull it off, only struggling in the process. He reaches over and removes it for me. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, fixing my hair. “Garrett in there is a dick. He has this whole god complex because he works after hours. Weird as hell.” 

“I should really go home and get some sleep before my final.”

He nods, guilt displayed on his face. “Can I have a do over tomorrow after your final? Your casual lunch date just got upgraded because I feel bad.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I tease, kissing his cheek before he drops me off at home. 

[blingblong55]

Touch -Valeria Garza NSFW

Photo credit: @ave661 (middle)

---- F!Reader, 18+, smut, MDNI, WLW, fingering, oral!sex, ruined!orgasm, dom!Valeria, sub!reader, toys, established!relationship ----

A/N: This is also with the help of one of my friends, so credit her for giving me ideas and for how this fic plays out...also let's thank her for judging me enough that I describe sex better...

Your pretty hands tied to the bed, a pillow under your hips, your arms wrapped around your thighs. Her tongue lapped at your pussy. Her tongue latching onto you with hunger, your moans and her lust-filled moans filling the empty armoury room. "Such a sweet pussy," she growls, licking and sucking hungrily at every part of your soft exposed flesh. Her tongue is as if in a trance when making slow circles around your clit, causing you to let out small and needy moans.

Your hips, trying to beg for her fingers to dig into that wet pussy of yours. She shakes her head, "Patience, Chula," her voice so soft, purring against your sensitive folds before looking up at you. You give her a whine and a needy stare, she can't help but give her needy girlfriend what she wants. Two of her fingers, stretching and massaging your tight cunt, her thumb rubbing circles around your swollen clit. She was driving you wild with love and desire; you arched your hips into her touch, begging to have more of her.

"Do you want more?" her lip into a soft and mocking pout as she taunts you. She stops just as she is about to hit your G-spot. She undoes the zipper of her jeans until they are off her body, her pretty laced panties covered in her wetness. Valeria looks at you, gets up and walks to the nightstand. She picks up a bottle of lube, a vibrator and her favourite strap-on. When she walks back to you, she pulls her panties down. The vibrator to the low setting, vibrations on your cunt, you whine and beg for more but it falls on deaf ears.

Valeria groans, watching with pleasure as you begin to go crazy under her touch. "Oh aren't you such a good girl for me, muñeca," she praises, her fingers picking up pace now. Her thumb continues to circle your clit relentlessly. Her free hand reaches behind her back as she unclasps her bra, tossing it to the floor without care. Her warm breasts spilt freely, heavy and full, ready to just let your pretty lips have a feel for them. She leans forward, cupping your bud between her teeth, suckling so greedily as if you were her lifeline.

Your eyes closed, begging for more of her touch and since your hands were tied to the bed all you could was beg. She exposes her shaved folds to your mouth. Valeria moans loudly when she feels your tongue fucking itself into her wetness. You look up at her, giving her a grin as you tongue fuck her. "Oh-..fuck..just like that, eat me like you mean it, Chula," she pants out. Her back arched as she thrusts her hips to your face. She grips the bed headrest, nails digging into it as she nears your much-needed climax. The way your tongue worships her wetness, savouring her sounds and her taste, oh what a mess have you made of her. Your tongue flickers and circles her sensitive spots while your nose hits the sensitive bud.

To all this, she bucks her hips harder against your mouth, trying her best to keep your mouth to her pussy. "Oh god, yes, just like that amor!" she cries out, her orgasm sending waves of pleasure, making her whimper when you wouldn't stop.

She pulls away and returns to the toys lying on the floor. She places with east the harness and adjusts it, the lube making the dildo glisten. The head of the heavy and massive cock at your warm entrance. Her hands are on your hair as she pulls your face to her and into a passionate kiss. Both your tongues tangled once more as the beautiful bodies start to move together with rhythm. Her soft hips rocking back and forth against your own. You squirm, trying to adjust to the size of the toy.

Your pretty eyes on her. "Oh, is my pretty girl ready to cum for me?" she chuckles, thrusting harder and fast inside of you. The head of the dildo hits your G-spot repeatedly, which sends waves of pleasure through your body. Her free hand reaching to play with her tits, she twists, pinches and laughs cruelly as she does all this. It was so erotic how much she loved to watch you this way. Not being able to say no since you love how she takes control and enjoys watching you cry for orgasms.

"Cum for me, whore." she thrust with need and primal need. "Cum while I satisfy all your dirty thoughts with my fat dick," she moans. The way your pussy clenched around that cock, how you tried to free yourself to pleasure your clit while you came gave her reason to pull away. You whine, kicking your feet, "No! No!..please…please I want to cum!"

"Tsk tsk, now now, be a good girl and stay patient." She secretly loves to get you to the point where you are just so close to your orgasm that she takes that away from you. You shut your eyes, tears running down as you become over-sensitive, "Please…please I'll do whatever, just make me cum!" you cry so pathetically it makes her laugh. As Valeria gets on her knees, she presses her thumb on your clit, three fingers inside of you as you begin to smile, getting back to that wave of pleasure. Your eyes shut, a smile like you won a beauty pageant, you bite your bottom lip and all she does is feel for when you are about to reach your orgasm.

Your cunt, clenched on her fingers, your body close to riding that high. Just as you were about to let out so much wetness, she pulled her fingers out, your feet kicking the bed as you whined. "That's what happens when good girls touch themselves without permission" A stupid mistake you made when you rode your pillow whilst she was away for work. You cry and she leaves the room, leaving you tied to the bed like her pathetic little slut.

A/N: I hope this was okay :) also here's the link that also inspired this https://twitter.com/sxy1434/status/1512570307604881414

Tags:

@unicorngirly1 @lesvii @nyx-flowey @sans-chara @viomast @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @strangepuppynightmare @coralwitchdreamland @strawberrychita

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[peachdues]

Bundle of Joy -- Part 2

Here it is!

I was not expecting Bundle of Joy to get as much love as it did, so thank you all for your kind words! It's a long one.

Read Part One here and the Prequel One-Shot here

CW: blood, some NSFW-esque content, swearing, angry Sanemi, soft Sanemi. Description of birth.

Tag list: @animeblog123 @fujochann @bonten-boys @tom01ka @theawkwardblackbee @stuckinthewrongworld @harpy-space

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Sanemi had been pissed when his crow had swooped over his head two days earlier, the little cretin squawking at him to head “Head East! Head East!” To kill a demon that had managed to evade capture by lower-ranked slayers.

Whether it had been by luck or divine intervention, Sanemi had not had a mission for nearly the entirety of Y/N’s final month of pregnancy, and he had been elated to devote every second of his days to her and her needs, as their child’s arrival drew nearer.

Truthfully, the Wind Pillar had never known bliss quite like what he felt when he woke up each morning with Y/N tucked securely in his arms, his hands resting on the generous swell of her pregnant belly as he eagerly awaited the powerful kick of their child that signaled all was well. He had never before experienced the utter ecstasy of feeling the silky warmth of his lover’s skin as he trailed his lips down from her neck to her breasts, heavy and tender, as she fought to quiet the breathy moans and sighs that left her throat under the ministrations of his tongue on her sensitive nipples. And it had been pure heaven to wrap his lips around that small bundle of nerves resting at the apex of her delicious thighs, as he lapped greedily from her core that seemed to perpetually drip with her honey thanks to the excess of pregnancy hormones. 

And as much as he loved the intimate mornings with Y/N, he had never felt more peaceful than when he sat beside her on his engawa, her back leaning against his chest and his arms circled around her, as they both sipped tea and watched the sunset after he finished training for the day.

But all of that had come crashing to a screeching halt when his crow had brought him orders to dispense of some lowly demon that the piss-poor excuse of lower-ranked slayers couldn’t handle on their own. Pathetic.

As he prepared to leave, he pressed a soft kiss to the generous curve of Y/N’s heavily pregnant belly, before rising to kiss her once, twice on the lips, and again on her forehead, his lover reveling in his embrace.

“Don’t you have this kid until I’m back,” Sanemi had murmured against her lips, brushing his callused thumb over her cheeks.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Because I can control that,” but she nestled her face deeper into his palm. “How ‘bout you get back here before I go into labor?”

“I’ll be back before you know it, gorgeous.” Sanemi winked at her, imparting her with a final kiss before disappearing in a swirl of wind.

-------------------------------------------------------

It had taken Sanemi a day and a half to track the demon into a swamp in the East. Sanemi had found its lair, littered with human bones, just as the demon rose from the brackish water, and lunged for him. The demon had not been particularly strong, but it was able to manipulate shadow, which is how Sanemi supposed it had managed to kill a large group of lower-ranked slayers. The familiar heat of the excitement of battle flooded his veins, as Sanemi – who had not had the opportunity to fight for nearly a month – relished the chance to let out some pent-up aggression.

The demon had tried to teleport itself between the shadows of the tree to attack Sanemi from behind, but he deftly avoided the demon’s claws, swinging his sworn clean through the demon’s arm. Sanemi grinned, enjoying the chance to toy with his prey.

“CAW!” the familiar screech of a crow sounded overhead, briefly startling both slayer and demon. “LABOR!” The crow cried; Sanemi only able to just make out the dark shape of the bird against the night sky. “GET TO KOCHO’S!”

Sanemi’s stomach flipped. Now? Y/N chose to go into labor now?

“Sorry, demon!” Sanemi’s gravelly voice boomed, a wide grin forming on his face as he swung his sword again, this time amputating the demon’s other arm as it howled in pain. “Gotta run! My girl’s havin’ my baby!”

Sanemi rammed his blade through the demon’s neck and wrenched it harshly to the side, the demon’s head falling with a pathetic thump! on the forest floor. Sheathing his weapon, Sanemi launched himself through the trees, using his wind breathing to gain momentum as he hurtled his way toward the Butterfly Mansion.

Sanemi arrived at Kocho’s estate in record time, having only taken a few hours to speed as fast as the wind could carry him, to get to Y/N’s side. When Sanemi arrived, the grounds of Kocho’s estate were abuzz as Kakushi and Butterfly Mansion girls darted around, gathering supplies. As he made his way inside the medical wing of the Mansion, he wondered whether some incident with a demon had occurred, given the urgency with which people moved.  

“Lady Kocho said she needs more towels and fresh water, quickly!” A tiny, pigtailed girl dressed in the Mansion’s sterile linens cried to another, her small arms full of bloodied towels.

Shit, Sanemi thought, his eyebrows rising. Nasty battle.

“Y/L/N-san must be bleeding a whole lot!” The other girl tearfully responded, her voice trembling.

The pig-tailed girl nodded. “If the baby doesn’t come soon…” The girl’s mouth kept moving, but Sanemi could hear nothing over the ringing in his ears.

There had not been a battle – it was Y/N. Sanemi whirled around, looking at the towels the girl carted away.

They were saturated in blood. Y/N’s blood.

Sanemi’s legs began moving of their own accord, his arm reaching out to snag the young girl by the back of her collar as she choked out a tiny, terrified scream.

“Where.” Was all he said, his arms shaking, eyes wild.

The girl gulped, lifting a trembling hand to point to her right, towards the back wing of the hospital. “The last room around the corner!” She squeaked.

Sanemi set her down and stormed towards the Eastern Wing of the Manor, not caring whom he barreled over in his haste.

You’d better be okay, Y/N. Sanemi thought, his fists balled as he willed himself to move faster. You and that baby had better be healthy.

--------------------------------------------------------

Sanemi Shinazugawa never believed himself to be a good person.

He could not possibly be good, because his life was marked by his failure when it had mattered most. He had been unable to protect his mother from becoming a demon, or from her killing almost all of his siblings. He had been unable to save Masachika. He had failed to prevent Genya from joining the Demon Slayer Corps, a veritable death sentence for most.

So it had been easy for him to withdraw, to shut himself off from everything – and everyone -- else. Sanemi could not fail anyone if he cared for nothing. People would still die, but it would not be because of his failures. He had been content to live his life, forever disconnected from the world around him.

But then, everything changed because he met her, and she became everything. 

Y/N had been the most precious surprise of his life. He had not paid her much mind as she had worked her way up through the Demon Slayer Corps, only really becoming familiar with her once she became Kinoe. He had been impressed by her skill, having not seen Lunar Breathing in action before the pair had been sent on a mission together, and she had used her eighth form – Lunar Eclipse – to shield him from the backlash of a demon’s attack. The move had cost her a rather deep gash to her side, and at one point, Sanemi had feared her insides would end up on the ground before the Kakushi arrived and whisked her away to Kocho’s Manor. Rather than cry or moan, Y/N had instead cracked jokes, trying to goad him into comparing battle wounds. Sanemi, in between cursing Y/N for her recklessness (because why should she risk her skin to save his?), had been beside himself, knowing that he lacked the general first-aid skills to at least staunch Y/N’s bleeding. It was only later, as Sanemi watched Y/N pant and try to talk herself through the pain as the Kakushi stitched her back together, that he realized that she had done it for his benefit – to keep him calm.

That she showed care for him before herself – that she had wanted to make sure that he did not spiral – had cracked something in the armor he had built around his heart.

Because until Y/N, Sanemi had not been able to remember the last time anyone put him first.

After she recovered, Sanemi had insisted on training Y/N on decent defense techniques, so that she would never again have to struggle to keep her internal organs inside her body where they belonged. He had reasoned at the time that she was the first slayer in years he had seen show true potential – true gumption.

Seeing her beautiful smile more frequently hadn’t been a bad thing, either.

Then Y/N had become a Hashira – his equal – and still sought him out for training. Sanemi had not dared let himself hope that her continued presence on his estate’s training grounds had anything other to do than with her desire to get stronger.

Yet there she had been that day, the day he could no longer hold himself back, grinning like she had won their spar. She had looked so smug, so infuriatingly beautiful, that he had not been able to stop himself from tasting her, just once. And then she kissed him back, and the first swipe of her tongue against his had turned him into a man starved, a man who could not resist taking more from her that she had been only too willing to give.

How foolish he had been to believe his desire for her could ever be sated.

Before long, he found himself anxiously checking the minutes as they ticked down to their next rendezvous, found himself worrying about her well-being. When she cried on the anniversary of her family’s death, Sanemi had felt as though his heart would crack in two, and he had not stopped himself from reaching for her to comfort her, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. It was then when he realized he would do anything to see her smile again, that Sanemi had known he was a goner.

By some miracle, she had chosen him, too. She had chosen to stay by him even when he tried to push her away when he thought he was so undeserving of any kindness from her. He had been convinced she could hear the cries of his loved ones as they echoed in his head after he would jolt awake, would hear them scream of his failures, but instead, she had stayed with him, offering him nothing but solace and warmth, and he had not been able to resist her.

And she loved him. She loved him, and though it went against everything in him, and contradicted every measure of self-preservation he had built up over the years, he loved her, too. He loved her so much, it hurt him for her to be away, when he could not feel the reassuring warmth of her body next to his, or when he could not smell the floral honey of her perfume. Sanemi knew that he could scarcely breathe when she was not near, knew that his soul had become inextricably bound to hers.

And though Sanemi had survived a great deal of loss in his life, he knew with certainty that he would not survive losing Y/N.

—————————————————————————

Sanemi’s teeth gnashed together as he sped up, finally rounding the final corner before the last room. His arm was outstretched, ready to punch the door to the birthing room open, but before he could do so, he smashed into something solid. He stepped back, sputtering, the instinct to destroy every obstacle, every threat that stood between himself and Y/N making his blood roar.

“Woah there, Shinazugawa.” It was Uzui, standing in front of the doorway, arms folded. “Sorry, you’re not allowed in there.”

Sanemi blinked, not understanding Uzui’s presence here, where his Y/N was giving birth to his child. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He demanded, moving to shove the Sound Pillar aside.

Uzui stood firm. “Kocho said you’re not to be let in there, and I’m following her orders.” His tone patronizing.

Sanemi’s eyes narrowed as he glared at his fellow Hashira, his fists clenched. “You do know I’m the fuckin’ father, don’t you?” He snarled, his anger rising and mixing with the panic he felt the longer he was kept away from Y/N.

“We do now,” Uzui said coldly.

A hand wrapped itself around Sanemi’s forearm, clenching it tight. “And we were instructed to keep you out until we knew it was safe for you to be in there.” Tomioka’s monotonous voice came from beside him, causing Sanemi to tense as the Water Hashira wrenched him back from Uzui.

“Safe? Are you fucking kidding me?” Sanemi shook Tomioka’s grip from his arm with a sneer, as he looked between the two Hashira in disbelief. “What the fuck does she need protecting from? That’s my fuckin’ baby she’s having!”

Tomioka’s face remained infuriatingly impassive. “Look, Shinazugawa, Kocho just wants to make sure Y/N is comfortable having you in there, and until she says so, you need to stay out.” The Water Hashira’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, the threat clear. “We do not want this to turn violent.”

Sanemi was shaking with rage, in part because he could infer the accusation that neither of them had the stones to say to his face, but mostly because every second out there was another second he wasn’t with Y/N, who was bleeding, who needed him.

Before Sanemi could snap back, an agonized wail ripped through the walls.

“NE-MI.” Y/N cried out, her voice cracking from the strain.

The combination of the pain and desperation in Y/N’s voice, paired with the severity of the situation caused something in Sanemi’s chest to audibly snap, a strange calm flooding through him. Both Uzui and Tomioka exchanged a look at Y/N’s use of Shinazugawa’s nickname and turned to face the trembling Wind Pillar.

Sanemi’s hand fell to his own blade, the veins in his arms threatening to burst through his skin. “I’m going to give you one second to get the fuck out of my way, or I’ll turn this hall into fuckin’ rubble.” His voice was low but deadly, a murderous glint shining in his eyes.

Uzui opened his mouth to respond, but the hesitation gave Sanemi the opening he needed to slip past both Hashira and push through the entryway into the birthing room.

“Dammit!” Uzui snarled, stumbling to grab onto the back of Shinuzagawa’s collar to yank him back into the hall, but it was too late.

Sanemi did not announce himself when he breezed into the birthing room Shinobu and the girls had crafted. The smell of blood had been overwhelming, and it had sent every hair on Sanemi’s body standing as he took in the sight of the woman he loved, sweating and pale on the floor, covered in the sticky, dark substance, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she struggled to take even shallow breaths.

Shinobu stepped back from her place between Y/N’s legs, ready to throw the Wind Pillar out herself, or at the very least order him to stand back and let her do her job. She drew short, however, when she saw Y/N, who stretched out a trembling hand desperately towards the man, relief flooding her tired, pained eyes.

“‘Nemi,” she whimpered, tears of exhaustion spilling over her cheeks.

Nemi paid neither Shinobu nor the other girls on hand any mind, instead focusing solely on Y/N and her swollen belly. Shinobu watched in dumb silence as Shinuzagawa knelt behind Y/N’s head, positioning one leg at each of her shoulders. Wordlessly, he slid his arms under her, sliding down to grip gently around her lower rib cage so that he could lift her upper torso enough to work himself beneath her. He settled her upper body in between his legs, her back pressed against his front, and wrapped his arms around her, locking her against his chest.

Shinobu felt so foolish for having doubted the Wind Pillar, especially as she witnessed Y/N— who was no doubt in incomprehensible pain — visibly relax in his embrace.

Shinazugawa peppered Y/N’s forehead and the side of her neck in comforting kisses. “‘M sorry it took so long, sweetheart, but I’m here.” He cooed in a voice so gentle, Shinobu had wondered whether she was truly looking at the Wind Pillar at all, and not some strange doppelganger.

Y/N, panting and sweating from the toll of her labor, just nodded. “I waited, ‘Nemi. I waited for you. I love you.” Her head lolled back against Shinuzagawa’s scarred chest, seeming as though she was on the verge of falling unconscious.

Shinuzagawa squeezed her lightly. “I know. And you’re doing so fuckin’ well, baby. So fuckin’ well. You’ve just got to try for a little bit longer, sweetheart. You’re almost there.” He murmured into her ear, pressing more kisses onto her face and the top of her head. Shinazugawa finally looked up at Kocho, his eyes narrowed, and his face expectant.

Shinobu shook off the surprise she felt, kneeling back down at Y/N’s feet. “The baby has gotten turned around in the birthing canal,” she began to explain, checking once more between Y/N’s legs. “I can try to rotate the child, but at this point, I’m worried both Y/N and the child are in too much distress. She could bleed out before I have the chance." Shinobu’s face tightened. “Or else I’ll have cut her open to get the child out.”

Y/N moaned, her head rolling to slump at her other shoulder, and Sanemi’s grip around her tightened. “What’s the other option?” He demanded.

Shinobu thought for a moment. “If Y/N can use total concentration breathing to push right as I rotate the baby, then she might be able to deliver naturally.” Shinobu met Sanemi’s eyes. “That would also keep her from bleeding out.” Shinobu’s gaze dropped to her friend’s face. “But she hasn’t used Total Concentration in months – I told her not to, since there was a risk her body wouldn’t know if something went wrong during the pregnancy.”

Sanemi nodded once, focusing his gaze back down on his semi-conscious lover. He brushed his lips against her temple, and her ear, slightly jostling her into opening her eyes.

“Did you hear that, baby? You just need to use Total Concentration when Kocho says, and then our kid will be here.” Sanemi smiled gently at Y/N, kissing her head once more. “But you’ve gotta help Kocho out, sweet girl. Can you do that for me?”

The blood loss had made Y/N’s eyes bleary, and unfocused as she tried to force her eyelids back open. Slowly, Y/N lifted her gaze to Shinobu, her head twitching slightly downwards in a nod.

Kocho ordered Aoi to hand her a long, sinister-looking tool that she referred to as forceps. Sanemi’s stomach dropped, realizing how Kocho would be using the tool to turn the child stuck in Y/N’s womb. Y/N must have seen it too, for she began to tremble beneath Sanemi, whimpering slightly and shaking her head.

“Shh, shh Y/N, baby.” Sanemi soothed, pressing his lips to her sweaty temple. “Eyes on me, okay? We’ll use Total Concentration together.” He promised, moving so that Y/N could see him better. Her exhausted eyes drifted up to meet his own, and she nodded, her grip around Sanemi’s forearm tightening.

“We’re ready.” Kocho said, face determined as she waited for Y/N to begin using the breathing form.

Weakly, Y/N sat a little taller against Sanemi’s chest, shifting so that she could grip his forearms with both hands.

“If I hurt you… ‘M sorry.” She breathed, looking up at her lover so tenderly, so apologetic that Sanemi had to restrain himself from crumbling.

Of course she was more worried about him and his comfort when she was the one bleeding out on Kocho’s floor.

Sanemi shook his head. “Just breathe, baby. One…two…” He counted down.

Y/N took a deep breath, her lungs screaming as they expanded beyond their normal capacity for the first time in months. In tandem with her inhale, Kocho pushed the cold, silver instrument into Y/N, the latter wincing at the sensation of the foreign object.

“I’ve got it!” Kocho said, sweat beading on her forehead. “Push now, Y/N!”

Beneath his arms, Sanemi felt every muscle of Y/N’s body contract as she pushed with all her might, her body curling in with the force of her exhale. The grip Y/N had on Sanemi’s forearms threatened to crush his bones, but Sanemi grit his teeth, holding Y/N steady.

“Almost there, one more time!” Kocho panted.

Y/N repeated her breathing, but on the exhale, a scream tore from her throat as she forced herself to push harder than she ever had, her nails breaking the skin of Sanemi’s arms.

Y/N collapsed against Sanemi’s chest, too exhausted to move once more. All was quiet for a moment; the air was still.

Until a new cry filled the room, small, yet loud, and so, so strong.

A wide smile broke out across the Insect Pillar’s face. “You did it. You did it, Y/N.”

-------------------------------------------------------

There were two things that Sanemi Shinazugawa knew with certainty: first, he had never known what happiness was.

Not true happiness, anyways. He thought he had known it, when he was a boy and his old man had finally kicked it, leaving him and his siblings and mother free from his abuse.

He had thought he had reached peak happiness again the first time Y/N fell asleep on his chest after a particularly rigorous romp, as he folded his arms behind his head, fascinated to watch her sleep, content and safe against his scarred torso.

Hell, he even thought he had known true joy when the little man in the nearby village began making ohagi just the way he liked it and sold it to him at a fraction of the cost he charged civilians. civilians.

Those had no doubt been happy times, but nothing, nothing compared to this.

As he tentatively reached out a finger, Sanemi realized that happiness, true happiness, was his daughter’s sleeping face, her little cherub cheeks impossibly soft against the callused roughness of his touch. Happiness was Y/N’s teary smile as she nuzzled against the soft mop of downy hair on their daughter’s head, as she whispered how perfect she was.

Second, Sanemi knew he was not good. While Sanemi had always known Y/N was a good person — the best person he had ever known, really — he had never considered that he could be labeled as anything close to “good.” He was too scarred, too hardened to be capable of doing anything remotely good in the world.

Yet as he stared down at his daughter, sleeping soundly in her mother’s arms, Sanemi couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, there had been some good in him after all.

--------------------------------------------------------

By the time the Sound and Flame Hashira had been permitted back inside the birthing room (Rengoku having returned some hours earlier after realizing the futility of trying to catch up with Sanemi), both could only stand over the Lunar and Wind Pillars and gawk as they beheld the small bundle fitted snugly in Y/N’s arms.

They could only gawk at Shinazugawa, who was still on the floor with his arms wrapped around Y/N, resting between his legs, as he ran a hand over the sleeping infant’s head with such care that they felt as though they were hallucinating the scene all together. Because Sanemi Shinazugawa had never treated anything so gently in his time with the Demon Slayer Corps as he treated the woman and baby daughter in his arms.

“Let me get this straight,” Y/N said loftily from below them, her eyes not leaving her daughter’s face. “You thought Sanemi was, what? A danger? A threat?”

Uzui laughed, nervously. “Not at all! We just wanted to be sure that he… you know… was supposed to be here.”

Y/N finally looked up at the reddening Sound Hashira, a mix of annoyance and amusement dancing in her eyes. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to interpret the insinuation that I could not hold my own against a man.” She smiled sweetly, but the threat was clear.

Kocho spoke up from the other side of the room. “I accept full responsibility for that decision, Y/N.” She said, only slightly sheepish in her admission. Kocho had remained in the room to monitor Y/N post-birth, to ensure that the Lunar Hashira maintained her Total Concentration Breathing so that her body could continue to heal itself after the trauma of her delivery. “I was…concerned based on some observations I had made earlier in the pregnancy, and I only meant to ensure your safety.”

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows. “Concerns?” she questioned.

Shinobu shifted her weight to her other leg, the only sign of her discomfort. “Both I and Aoi had observed some…marks on your body during your checkups, early on.” Light pink dusted the Insect Pillar’s cheeks. “I was concerned you had been harmed.”

Y/N paused for a moment, trying to imagine what it was Shinobu could have possibly seen during her first few appointments that would have indicated she had been in any kind of trouble.

The only marks Y/N ever had on her skin that did not come from her battles with demons had been those left behind after she and Sanemi-.

Oh.

Oh.

Y/N flushed deeply, ducking her head back down to look at her daughter, a curtain of hair concealing her face and her embarrassment. Behind her, Sanemi snorted as he too realized what Shinobu had implied.

Shinobu cleared her throat. “But I understand now that those were just marks…incidental to your everyday life.”

Y/N briefly wondered why the blood loss hadn’t killed her, why it hadn’t at least knocked her out, so she did not have to witness the details of hers and Sanemi’s intimate life be on display in front of not one, but three of their comrades.

Meanwhile, Sanemi remained behind her, content and at peace to be with his girl and their child, if not a little smug at the revelation.

Y/N’s embarrassment was saved by a sudden piercing cry.

“I think she might be hungry, Y/N.” Shinobu said, crossing the room to peer down at  the small bundle wrapped in Y/N’s arms.

“Of course she is, she’s a growing girl!” Y/N glowed, returning her gaze to her daughter, brushing her fingertip ever so lightly over her tiny nose.

Sanemi looked up, for the first time, at the Flame and Sound Hashira who were still gaping down at him and Y/N, his eyes half-lidded in bliss, a wide grin on his face.

“Fuck off.” was all he said, turning his attention back to his girls.

The other Hashira took their cue, and filed out of the birthing room, giving the new family some well-deserved privacy.

When he was sure they were alone, Sanemi brushed Y/N’s hair over one of her shoulders, helping her loosen her kimono to bare her full breasts.

Once their daughter had latched, Y//N rested her head back against her lover’s chest, content to just bask in the utter bliss she felt at having her child in her arms and her heart pressed against her.

Sanemi slid a hand across Y/N’s throat to to her jaw, tilting her head towards him so that he could press a long kiss to her forehead, thumb stroking her face. Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut, reveling in the comfort and warmth of the moment.

Sanemi pulled his lips away from Y/N’s head. “Hey,” he murmured, keeping his hands beneath her jaw to tilt her face up so she could meet his eyes, unfathomable tenderness and something else she couldn’t name reflected in the lavender pools she loved.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ scare me like that again.” He whispered, the grip on her jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Y/N looked at him, incredulously. “You’ve helped me hold my organs inside my body after a fight, but that’s what scared you?” She asked, teasingly.

Sanemi grimaced. “That’s different. This time, I couldn’t do anything to help — either of you.”

Y/N reached a hand up over her to gently cup Sanemi’s face. The Wind Hashira closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, his hands holding her tighter to him.

“I love you.” He murmured as he nuzzled her palm. “So fucking much.”

Y/N had known, of course, for a long time that he loved her. Sanemi was always a man of action rather than words, and he had shown her, on plenty of occasions, how he felt about her.

But hearing him say it still brought tears to her eyes. Y/N moved her hand from Sanemi’s face to grab around the back of his neck, pulling him down to her so that she could kiss him, soft and sweet.

When their lips finally broke apart, Sanemi huffed, slightly annoyed.

“So are you going to marry me now, or not?”

Y/N smiled against his skin. “Yes, you impatient man. I will marry you.”

--------------------------------------------------------

“I still don’t get it.” Uzui loudly complained. “How does that happen?”

The other Hashira watched from afar as Shinazugawa and Y/L/N walked up the steps into the Master’s mansion, the Wind Pillar’s arm securely wrapped around the Lunar Hashira’s waist as she carried a small bundle bearing the small, wiggly, and loud infant that she had given birth to a few weeks prior.

“I thought the diagram Y/L/N drew for you was pretty instructive, Uzui.” Iguro said, teasing malice lighting his eyes.

“I would have thought that three wives would have made you more knowledgeable, Uzui!” Rengoku said, half seriously. “But to think, you did not know how babies were made!”

“That’s not what I meant.” Uzui sputtered, a vein throbbing in his forehead.

“I can’t believe none of you noticed that he practically tripped over himself to demand that he take the night shifts watching over her.” Kanroji giggled. “I thought he was going to tear Tomioka’s head off for even trying to volunteer!”

“I thought he was just some weird night-owl!” Uzui indignantly. “Or that he liked watching people sleep!”

Rengoku chortled. “I do not think there was a whole lot of sleeping going on between them, Uzui!”

Uzui groaned, and the other Hashira laughed. Only Kocho remained quiet, her eyes fixed on the backs of her comrades as they awaited entry into the Master’s mansion.

A few weeks ago, Kocho would never have used the word “gentle” to describe Sanemi Shinazugawa. She would have preferred to use “abrasive,” or even at times, “hostile.”

But all that changed the moment she had witnessed the Wind Pillar tend to his beloved Lunar Hashira and their small daughter, and Kocho had realized that Shinazugawa, deep down, was not as brash as his exterior.

None of the Hashira were whole; all of them were a little broken by their trauma. But Shinazugawa was also gentle and kind, and perhaps that was what had drawn him to Y/N in the first place. Perhaps that was all it took; someone to bring out that softness in him, to chip away at the tough facade.

But Kocho kept these musings to herself, and smiled, as the little family disappeared inside the Master’s mansion.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Mostly fluff, I know, but I hope it was worth it. Soft Sanemi is everything to me.

Thank you for reading!

[haechvn]

Sit Down Please (Headcanon) (18+ NSFW)

Pairing: Shuri x F!Reader

Warning: Nasty whoreish good for nothing filth..

Summary/Request: Am I the only one that thinks Shuri would love when reader sits on her face 👀🥵

Word Count: 0.7k+

Author’s Note: Just read you whores. Thank you Anon! <3

Taglist :  @melodykisses, @blackhottie25, @tonakings, @coalmistyy, @szalipcombo, @prettyluhlaiiii, @yelenabelovasgf, @callmeoncette, @clqrosmgc, @beautybyfire, @homelessmicechild, @shurisbitch

Translations: Sthandwa = My love

The S in Shuri also stands for seat in case you didn’t know

Her facial structure is so pristine and clean cut. Why you may ask? IT’S BC THAT’S WHERE YOUR COOCHIE IS DESIGNED TO BE

Wants to eat you out in her lab, the throne room (ON THE THRONEEEE), on a ship. Literally everywhere

Don’t think about how Shuri practically begs you every morning to eat you as a part of her breakfast

“Sthandwa, as Princess of Wakanda, I decree that you must place yourself on my face in order for me to truly be able to guide my country in the best way possible. I cannot go without it. ”

Just the thought of her tongue circling your clit gives her more strength than the heart-shaped herb

She loves when you choke her with your pussy, constantly moaning into your pussy and rubbing both of her hands over your ass

Breathing isn’t that important anyways

You could see your juice fall down on the sides of her face and make her jaw glitter omg

She would ask you to wipe it off with your fingers and stick them in your mouth I—

Tugging you further and further into her mouth as if she is treasure hunting up your insides

Shuri would force you to always keep your eyes on her

But other times, she would shut her eyes so tight and just focus on how soft and luscious you feel in her mouth and she wouldn’t be able to stop moaning i promise

Being the kinky fuck she is, she may or may not put a finger up your a—

She wouldn’t let you go until you’ve cum at least twice and she would want you to watch her gulp your cum down her throat OMG AH

Constantly shaking her head north south east and west, wanting to catch every part of you in her mouth

SPITS ON YOUR CLIT EVERY TEN SECONDS BC THE S IN SHURI STANDS FOR WHAT??

I think she would also have a thing for biting your clit

Like when you feel like you are going to explode and want to run away, she would teasingly bite you and pull you down even closer or wrap your legs around her head even tighter bc she could care less if she died between your thighs or not

I feel like when she goes down on you, she’s more of a munch vs a fingering kinda gal buttt

Every time she fingers you, it's always three fingers bc she needs you to feel her in all her glory

She likes doing the infamous ‘come here’ motion but at any extremely slow place so you would feel her fingers on your g spot for AT LEAST five seconds at a time

DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG FIVE SECONDS IS???

while doing that, Shuri would move her whole head in circles going in one direction (#zarry) and have her tongue moving in the opposite direction!!!!

SHURI IS A DIRTY GIRL LIKE YALL

Would force you to sit on her during zoom calls and phone conversations

WOULD PURPOSELY SPEAK XHOSA INTO YOUR PUSSY WHEN YOU ARE ABOUT TO CUM BC IF THAT DOESN’T THROW YOU OVER THE EDGE I DON’T KNOW WHAT WILL

“You better bounce this pussy on my face Princess before I punish you for not being slutty enough for me” !!!!!!

Loves when you grab her hair and force her head up and just GRIND THE FUCK OUT OF THAT STUNNING FACE

WANTS YOU TO BE AGRESSIVE WITH HER SO SHE FEELS SLUTTED OUTTTTT

You would always be seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head and fuck does she look amazing

Would completely blow down to you when you reach back and start stroking her pussy bc your Queen needs attention too &lt;3

Rubbing on her clit or fingering her would literally bring growls out of Shuri likee

She would deliver the hardest and loudest slaps to your ass, and groan like the little bitch she is bc truth be told, SHE LIKE BEING HANDLED LIKE A WHORE

She would grind her hips up to meet your fingers and just whore herself out

“Fuck baby right there ughh” BUT YOU WOULDN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT SHE’S SAYING SINCE HER MOUTH IS VERY MUCH FULL

I can see her wanting to eat you out for an entire hour but “baby you have an entire country to rule”

“yea and somehow this pussy is still more important” 

I rest my case

[davidstortebeker]

The Permaculture Spiral Garden - A Great Starting Point

There is probably no other structure as popular for illustrating Permaculture in practice as the Herb Spiral. Okay, I guess I could mention the lasagna sheetmulching method or also the cob oven that tends to be the first hands-on project at a typical Permie intro session. But when it comes to showing how landscape design, zones and sectors, stacking functions, and efficient use of space and water come together in one unique structure, the Spiral Garden is unbeatable.

Turning Theory into Practice

In typical Permaculture Designer Certificate courses, but even in brief intro weekends to Permaculture, there tends to be a lot of theoretical discussions. Since the numerous design principles can be applied to any climatic region, from the tropical to the subarctic, and on any scale from the humongous to the tiny, the practical aspects of the ideas can easily get lost. That's where a good hands-on application comes, where the participants get to move around rocks and dirt, while realizing how much it ties in to the concepts they've just discussed. This way the apparent "main purpose" of "building something to grow all your kitchen herbs on", becomes a neat side feature.

Adjust Your Landscape!

The first thing to realize that landscape is welcome to be modified and adjusted to bring out the best in it. Clearly, while it is important to work with what's there already, it doesn't hurt think about mounds and valleys. And before you bring out the excavators for your large-scale farm, it makes sense to start small… say on a circle of 2-5 meters (6-16 feet) diameter. In other words, the Spiral Garden is a hill with a spiral shaped surface, leading down to ground level, or further down into a water hole. It can be made out of rocks, bricks, concrete debris, or anything else you have lying around that can hold your soil.

Design According to Your Scale

Looking around for existing Herb Spirals it's easy to get confused. Some are so big you can actually climb on them (that is, you have to in order to reach what's growing on top). Others are so tiny that you may not even want to step on them. The question is: which size is the right one for you? Since this is something you will have to decide almost daily in Permaculture, it doesn't hurt starting out with this important question.

Organizing Your Spiral Garden

While there are seemingly endless types of Spiral Gardens, there are a few things they all have in common: They all start out with a region on the top, where water is bound to run off right away, leaving the soil relatively dry. This area is also the most exposed to the wind. Keep this in mind when choosing the plants that are going to live here. Ideally, the spiral should start sloping toward the East from here. Delicate plants that benefit greatly from the morning sun will appreciate this region. As the slope continues toward the South and West, it becomes more suitable for sun loving species. Finally, as the spiral reaches the ground level in the shady Northern part, it will be perfect for herbs that prefer less sun, more shade and more water, since the soil tends to be wetter here. (Note: This is for the Northern Hemisphere. In the Southern Hemisphere North and South are reversed.) To make full use of the runoff water, many people add a small pond at the base of the spiral, where additional aquatic plants, such as watercress, can be grown.

The given illustration offers a good number of herbs for a nicely diverse kitchen. Depending on what else you want in your Herb Spiral, you can add it in the most suitable region. Mint and lemon balm love the cooler, shady part with more water. Lemongrass is great in the sunny area, and tarragon and estragon prefer the dry top of the spiral. Of course, the idea is not limited to kitchen herbs. For maximalists, the same theory can work with a mountain you might want to terraform into a spiral farm. But right now I'd prefer to stay small scale.

Plenty of Benefits (That's Why It's Permaculture)

As explained above, the main purpose of the Spiral Garden is not only to increase your gardening area by making use of the vertical, but also to create diverse climatic conditions, which do make a difference on the smallest scale. But as Permaculture tends to be, there are many other benefits to it. The structure itself offers great habitat for numerous animals, such as frogs, salamanders, lizards, but also pollinating insects, and of course others that may not directly benefit us, but by feeding on others they all add to the stability of our ecosystem. The structure itself will suppress weeds and make use of material that you're not likely to use elsewhere. Finally, depending on the size and location, it will be an ideal place to grow all your kitchen herbs right where you can access them most easily.

Some Things to Keep in Mind

When building the structure, make sure it will contain the soil in a nice trough, slanting slightly inward. That way bits and pieces that fall off will roll towards the center, until contained by the main mound.

Make sure the slope is always nice and gradual, avoiding sudden drops where the water can rush down quickly, eroding the soil.

If you're going to walk on your spiral, include a separate walkway that won't compress good soil. Most importantly, it should be sturdy enough to provide stability and make access safe.

Don't forget that while the structure is important to keep the soil in place, it is the soil that you'll be growing plants in. So it should have a good depth of 20-50 cm (8-20 inches) throughout the entire spiral. This can be the trickiest part!

Apply your own observation to which plants do better in which parts of the spiral. Also, with time you will find many other plants growing in it that you didn't plant. Before removing them, consider how much they actually bother your herbs, and whether their benefits may not outweigh their drawbacks.

Go Out and Build Your Own!

I hope this brief overview got you inspired to go out and try building an Herb Spiral yourself! I would love to hear your experiences with it!

Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4

[thefandomdirtymind]

The small favor

18 +

OPLA - Vinsmoke Sanji

Prequel : The Haircut

Sanji / OPLA Masterlist and Coming Soon 

A/N IMPORTANT: My first Smut fic in a very long time and damn I'm rusty. But, I hope you will still like it and I swear to improve myself with descriptive action scene.

Warning : Smut, mention of masturbation, unprotected sex, oral ( Fem receiving) , praising, vanilla sex, fluff

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.  

If you enjoy my story please let me know.

---

The moon, bright and full, was high in his sky. The supper was over for a long time ago now and the crew of the Merry going was all asleep, dreaming of battle, new territory to draw, a table full of food, adventure or of being reunited with an old friend.

But, you couldn’t sleep. The sound of the wave crashing against the boat, the light of the moon piercing through your window, the loud snoring duel between Zoro and Luffy and finally your brain who just couldn’t stop to think.

Turning on your other side for the fifth time, you let out a loud sigh. It was the third night in a row you couldn’t sleep. You had tried various techniques, from a marvelous tea prepared by Sanji, to sleeping outside. But neither the tea, things that seem to shock the best chef of the east blue, nor the traditional method had succeeded.

Getting down from your hammock, resolute to finally sleep, you exited without a sound your room. Making your way to a particular door, you slowly knock, guilt twisting your gust.

It didn’t take long for Sanji to open the door, even if you could tell by the state of his hair and simple black boxer he was wearing that he, on the contrary of you, was deeply in dreamland just a few minutes ago. 

“ Y/N, everything is okay darling ? “ He asked, a yawn on his lips. 

“ I can’t sleep again “ You confessed, your eyes admiring the view of his half naked body.  

“ Oh then we will try another tea, I wrote a recipe here, I had some idea of why the one before didn’t work but…“  The blond reply, returning in the room, letting the door open behind him. 

“ No Sanji, I need another small favor in fact “ You reply, following him in the room, closing the door behind you. 

 “ Everything you need mon coeur” The man replied, now clearly curious.

Traveling the small space between you, your gaze never leaving his, you slowly put your hand on his chest, lifting them slowly, brushing his skin with your fingertip until finally you join them behind his neck.

“ Sanji…please fuck me “ You softly ask. 

In an instant, you felt the hard wall press behind your back and his strong hands on your hips pinning you in place, his lips lingering only few minimeter of yours. 

“ I thought you would never ask” He groaned, taking possession of your lips.

The kisses of Sanji’s were exactly like him, passionate but gentle. Every move of his lips over yours, every exchange of breath or flip of his tongues against yours make you shiver or moan of pleasure. When his hands, like in a ballet in harmonie with his mouth, were exploring the soft skin of your breast under your still clothes body. 

Leaving your face to pepper kiss the valley between your neck and your shoulder. You felt one of his hands slide slowly between your legs, his thumb already rubbing in slow circles your clit. 

“ You're already so wet” He smiled, kissing the column of your throat  “ Did you start without me ? “ 

“I tried to masturbate, it didn't work out” You confessed, as you caressed the surface of his back, leaving yourself some kisses on his broad shoulders, your eyes heavy with lust. 

“ Then I will have to try, don’t you think, Prunelle de mes yeux *. Maybe I wasn’t enough in your mind"  (* Apple of my eye) 

Putting down your pants alongside your panties. He seductively left a last kiss on your lips before kneeling before you, his thumb traveling lazily between the lips of your pussy before teasing your clit.

Licking you first with long strokes with the flat of his tongue, moaning when your fingers buried himself on his golden hair. He then proceeds to alterne with the tip of his tongue creating a devilish prequel to the main course.  

After a while his tongue seems everywhere, driving you crazy, eating you out like if you were the best meal of his life. Sanji took his time to suck your clit as his finger was sliding in you in a pace you could only think as delicious torture. 

As promised, your mind had cleared everythings who’s isn’t related to him and the pleasure he slowly build in your belly. 

“ Oh fuck, soo good, Sanji please more…more…” You whine, your knees shaking as his two fingers pushed further in you.

Still pin at the wall with his large hand on your stomach. Your hands in his hair, trying to keep your sanity. You could feel him smile against the flushed skin of your thigh as the speed of his finger increased and he kissed once more your pussy with his open mouth, reducing you as a babbling mess. 

“ Sanji I…Sanji !” You cried, becoming temporarily mute as the pressure built in your body and your orgasm struck you like lightning, making your knees buckled.

Catching you up before you fell on the floor, Sanji brought you to his desk, sitting you on the plane surface. 

“ Y/N can you spread your legs a little?” He gently asked. 

“ Sanji I will need a minute here” You laugh, still coming down from the previous orgasm. 

“ I know darling I only want to engrave in my brain how you look so beautiful half naked and pleasure high spread on my desk.” He replies, smiling, his lips still glossy of your juice.

“ You’re a pervert “ You joked, spreading your legs for him to see. 

“ Say the girl who wake me up to be fuck until she fall asleep “ He responded, inserting himself between your legs as he bring you closer to the edge for a toe curling kiss ,removing in a fluid moves his boxer, letting him totally naked.

You took the time, as he broke your embrace to extract you from your tank top, to admire, again, the splendors of all his physique. Not that you hadn’t noticed before, you had eyes of course and the man fully dressed was already worth being seen. But having him like that, smiling, as his muscular body overlooks yours, his cock already erect just for you, makes you so happy to have insomnia that night.

Advancing your hand to take his cock, smoothly initiating a move of up and down, you smiled when you heard him moan in the crock of your neck. 

“ Is that good ? “

You didn’t hear the response he muttered,  but as his hand stopped yours to push the tips of his dick on your entrance, you decided that you truly didn’t care.

Thrusting at a slow pace, letting your body adjust to him, the best cook of the east blue was clearly starting to lose the battles with his self-control when your hips joined him in the movement in a way more high cadence. Moaning your name like a prayer, sucking your nipples like if they were made of candy, his hand shaking slightly, he gladly followed your change of regime, making you back arch and welcoming every one of your whine and moan like if they were gift from a goddess herself. 

“ Yes, like that, please just like that Yes” You praised him, your second orgasm near. 

“ Yes Madam” Sanji groaned on your lips with his damn proud smile,rubbing your clit. “ But i’m not done with you yet” 

Your forehead pressed against his, your eyes closed, you exploded for the second time that night.

Your brain, still in a blissful fog, became sadly aware of the hollowed sensation in your pussy when he removed his dick as well as the trail of open mouth kisses Sanji left on your breast before helping you get down off the desk. 

Turning you around, exposing your ass in just the right angle. You loudly gasped when he filled you again, making you wonder if you didn’t get yourself a new addiction. But, if you did, you wouldn’t be alone. Sanji, behind you was a total mess, his breath frantic, thrusting in you like he found in your warm core a new religion beside, of course,the food. 

As your nail was scratching small strides in the wax on his dark wood desk , leaving him physically something to remember that night, you could feel his own orgasm coming.

“ So…so close mon coeur '' He moaned, before letting out a groan of satisfaction as the pleasure finally took him.  

Crying your last moans, your breath panting, you felt his chest trapping you against the wood panel as he slowly regained his composure, whispering sweet praise in your ear.

 “ You know what mon coeur, forget the tea, I will exhaust you everytime you can’t sleep“ 

—

Press against Sanji's chest in his small hammock, your eyes heavy from fatigue, you smiled. 

“ Thank you for the favor” You laugh, yawning.   

“ Anytime Madam” Sanji quietly laughed, his own eyes closing, as you both drifted in the better sleep you had. 

[pseudowho]

Kingsman!AU: Galahad/Nanami Kento

You become the latest Kingsman...and the man who sponsored you is so much more than the gentleman he presents himself as.

Warnings: Best if you've seen the Kingsman films! 18+, MDNI, soft!Dom Nanami, SecretAgent!AU

A little series of smutty drabbles...also planned, Higuruma, perhaps others, for now.

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It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the strangest job interview you had ever had.

Handcuffed, in an East London Police interview room, after assaulting five (...six? Seven?) police officers at an anti-government protest, you were scruffy but unharmed. The blood on your hands was not your own. There was a high flush on your cheeks, ripped clothes casting an indifferent, messy disdain to the situation you found yourself in.

There was a knock at the door, three brisk taps. You did not answer-- a pause. Three further raps at the door.

"...come in?" You asked. The door opened a crack. No further advancement.

"...may I?" A voice, velvet smooth and low, asking your permission.

"I...dont see why it would be my choice," you offered, stretching your hands against the cold metal of your handcuffs.

The door opened slowly, filled by a broad, tall man, blond and outstandingly handsome, with neither a hair nor thread out of place in his Savile Row suit. Over his arm rested a neatly folded overcoat, and a glossy-handled men's umbrella. His hat never graced his head indoors, and was, as such, clasped in his hand. He raised one fine eyebrow at you, his expression unreadable.

"It would be ill-mannered of me to consider it anyone's choice other than yours," he offered coolly, sitting opposite you, "considering you are the only occupant of the room." A moment of silence, again, as you regarded each other.

"Are you...my lawyer?" The man's nostrils flared slightly in suppressed mirth.

"Good heavens, no. No, I have come with a job opportunity." You blinked, certain you had heard wrong, while he continued, "I saw your performance, on my way to work, and I must say I was rather impressed. Seven officers, in under a minute. All incapacitated. Outstanding. And you're untrained, too. And, you did so well at University-- first class honours, correct?"

"Who the hell are you?" You spat, bristling under the man's casual knowledge of your life. The station's assistant looked awkwardly between the two of you as he dropped off two chipped police-issue teacups and saucers of anemic-looking tea. The blond man took the cup and saucer so gracefully, considering the enormity of his hands.

"Ah...quite right. I haven't introduced myself. Nanami Kento-- it's a pleasure to meet you."

You faltered again under his icy regard. Nanami took a sip of his tea. He paused, looking down at it with a hint of despair, before placing it down and delicately clearing his throat.

"...delicious," he lied.

"Are you...MI5?" A brief smile from Nanami, in response. He reached for something in his pocket.

"No," he responded, clipped, "we are not. But, we are in service to King and Country, and we are the sort of agency who punch up, instead of down. And...we find ourselves one member short."

Nanami slipped a thick, embossed coin over the desk to you; a circle, with a sideways "K". Nanami stood up, abruptly, inclining his head to you.

"All charges against you have been dropped. Your interview will commence, at..." Nanami looked at his watch, "...five o'clock this afternoon, should you wish to accept. If you press that coin for five seconds, my associate should send you the details."

You sat, stunned into silence, with the coin in your hands. Nanami Kento looked to you with twinkling eyes, at the door. You felt the twist of fate in your belly, and the pull as Nanami Kento walked it away with him.

"Good day to you. The pleasure was all mine."

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It had taken you over an hour to walk from Whitechapel to the Savile Row address. As bedraggled as you were, you passed through the bustling gentry and street performers of Covent Garden, skirting past the Savoy...before reaching the hushed, golden backlit glow of an exquisite Tailors shop. Letters were embossed upon the windowpane, glimmering gold on a backdrop of finery.

Kingsman.

A tinkling bell; an incongruous stranger, entering an unfamiliar domain. A familiar stranger, strong and smiling, upon the couch. Your breath hitched before you spoke.

"...you're here." Nanami folded his newspaper, standing up, before welcoming you to a changing room, that was not a changing room.

"You're late," he whispered against your ear, as the ground under London sank beneath your feet.

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"...that's mad." You stood in front of a glass window, somewhere far beneath Surrey, gazing in wonderment upon an aircraft hangar full of billions of pounds worth of mercenary equipment. Nanami chuckled beside you. You missed the almost fond sideways glance he passed you.

"I thought the same," he hummed, "when I was brought here, for the first time. I thought someone was playing some tremendous joke, for all the world but me." You were silent, dry-mouthed and swallowing.

"Tell me something..." you insisted, your palm pressed flat against the glass.

"...anything," Nanami reassured, soft and sincere.

"If I pass this-- this test," you whispered, turning to him, "will I get to work with you?"

Nanami smiled, leaning upon the handle of his umbrella, one leg crossed upon the tip of his toes behind the other.

"I'm counting on it."

Another man, tall and lithe, with inky black hair and a hooked nose, arrived with a clipboard. He offered you both a lopsided smile-- "Galahad-- good to see you, my friend"-- white sleeves rolled up against a tailored waistcoat--

-- a rich, Scottish brogue--

"...are you ready to begin?"

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Not only had you passed these months and months of bizarre, deadly tests...you had excelled.

Nanami had remained, always, at arms' length...a distant advisor. An odd, gentle promise. He could not offer any tangible advice, and you could see him itching to, at points.

It was down to the final two; you, and some Cambridge yuppy who could trace his family lineage back to the Battle of Hastings.

You stepped through the dormitories, late at night before the final test, your German Shepherd bounding ahead to sit diligently at the foot of your bed.

You felt a strong arm loop around your waist, and a hand over your mouth. A familiar cologne that made your stomach clench. You stood, pressed against his clipped, firm body, tucked into a camera's blindspot.

"Listen to me," he hissed in your ear, "Do you trust me?"

You nodded, not hesitating for a moment. Nanami's belly flipped to feel your hot little breaths around his hand.

"Good...shoot the fucking dog." You squeaked, trying to turn to him. He pinned you flush against the wall. His chest rumbled against your back.

"Trust me. Shoot the dog."

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You shot first, without a moment of hesitation. Your opponent returned to Cambridge. You became a Kingsman. Both dogs survived the trial.

The hamper that Galahad, your new partner, sent to your home, was nothing short of the finest luxury.

"To my Very Best Bet", read the lovingly annotated card. You brushed it against your lips, wishing it was his fingers instead.

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The wallet was a supple brown leather, smooth and warm. You knew it belonged to Galahad, from the faint smoky cologne that lingered upon its skin. Merlin gave you Galahad's address. You missed the knowing smile Merlin also gave you.

Your stomach flipped in your belly, all the way through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. You passed beneath trees hundreds of years older than the establishment for which you now worked, treading upon the footsteps of Kings and Queens.

The first fresh flakes of snow kissed upon your lips, by the time you turned to the towering white grandeur of Kensington, very much not where you were from. You were freezing, your little hands clenched in your pockets, but hot with anticipation.

Reaching a fine, tall townhouse, all Georgian architectural triumph, you pushed through the black metal gate, rising up white stone steps. You hesitated only briefly before tapping the door, heavy, and gilded forest green.

"--just a minute-- please excuse me--...oh. Hello."

Galahad stood at the door, as...relaxed as you had ever seen him. His crisp white shirt was unbuttoned to his chest, and his waistcoat hung similarly open, with tie tails trailing down his chest. With his sleeves rolled up, and a pinstriped apron tied round his waist, you swore you almost saw him blush.

"...to what do I owe the pleasure?" He breathed out, finally. The apples of your cheeks, pink with the cold, dimpled under your smile. You reached out to Galahad, his wallet clasped in your hand.

"You forgot something," you offered. His hand reached out immediately, a goodness, thank you, you shouldn't have upon his lips, before your cold little fingers grasped under his own.

"You are miles from home," he rumbled, chastising, "and you are freezing cold." You tipped on your heels on the doorstep, placating him with a finger to your lips, and a glint in your eye. You moved to go down the steps, but your fingers remained clasped in his.

"Where are my manners? You should come in...of course."

"Galahad, don't feel oblig--"

"Kento, please," he ushered you inside, a hand ghosting over the small of your back, "if we're going to share dinner, we should not pretend to be strangers."

Kento's house bore all the opulent gloss of its noble history, with fine black and white checkered tile flooring, and twisting dark oak bannisters carrying the high staircase away from you. A receiving room beside you, bigger than your whole home, bloomed beneath the sultry flicker of a fire, the only source of light in the room. The kitchen lights spilled inwards, a herby bourginon aroma drawing you in.

You slipped your coat off your shoulders, and blushed, as Kento stood behind you to receive it. His heart pounded under the effort of containing his thrill to have you in his home. The thought of being alone with him, like this, had occupied your mind at night, for so many months.

"Sit, please," Kento insisted, heading to his drinks cabinet. Two slim, hazel eyes darted to you in question; "...can I tempt you?"

You settled on the sofa, antique, and likely much older than you; "Ah...wine?" Kento smiled, heading over to you with a bottle in his grasp, and two slim-necked glasses between his fingers.

You shared the bottle-- dinner was forgotten, cooking slowly on the back burner. You felt yourself becoming supple, warmed by the fire, the wine and the company. Within just a few hours, you and Kento laughed together, both liquor-dishevelled, hands brushing forearms on the back of the sofa. His calloused fingertips were electric against the inside of your wrist.

"You really were, you know," Kento hummed, placing down his unfinished glass of wine, "my best bet. The best gamble I...I ever made." You didn't know how you had ended up drawn so closely to him. Your legs tangled in his, head radiating from his thighs into yours. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling you gently, insistently, closer to him.

"I don't normally do this," Kento bargained with himself, whispering against you, his tongue swiping out to dampen your plush lips, "it isn't very-- I really shouldn't, I-- dinner first, at least--" You couldn't help but drown under him, silent in the pools of his dilated pupils as he pressed you to lay back on the sofa, climbing over you, and trapping you beneath him.

"...can I tell you a secret?" Kento murmured against your neck, melting you under his lips and tongue. His hand moved down to undo the buttons of your silk blouse. You nodded, feeling him shiver as you did the same to his shirt.

"...I left my wallet behind on purpose," he rumbled, predatory. The tension snapped. His lips crashed to yours, with Kento groaning into your mouth, tongue trembling against yours. Ripping at the buttons of your blouse, his gentlemanly self-restraint was all but abandoned.

Stripping you, freeing your breasts with bitten-back growls and murmurs, Kento rolled you onto the Persian rug in front of the fire, crowding over you and taking one breast between his lips, licking your nipple into his mouth as his enormous hand pawed at the other.

"--beautiful...beautiful, you know that? Always thought...if you hadn't made it in...I'd have brought you home anyway..."

"Ken--Kento, I--" You broke off into breathy, high moans as Kento's hand slipped down, clutching at your pussy beneath your skirt. His hand scraped the lace edges of your stockings, his breaths frantic and panting with hurry.

"Say my name...again," he panted, strong fingers cupping your sex, moving to massage you, desperate need radiating through his hand. Kento pressed hard enough to massage your clit through the lips of your pussy, you mewled, squirming under him as he growled, "Again. Say my name."

"Kento," you squeaked. Your voice seemed to make Kento frantic, and he pulled off your skirt, your stockings, your underwear, until you were suddenly, blissfully bare beneath him. He knelt, still fully clothed in front of the firelight. His barrelled chest rose and fell, a high blush across his sharp cheekbones.

"This isn't...how a gentleman behaves," you gasped, one arm draped over your eyes. You heard Kento chuckle, cracking his knuckles above your prone, trembling curves. You heard the wolfish grin in his voice.

"Oh yes it fucking is."

One of his hands draped between your breasts, running down your chest and belly, to graze fingertips over your mound. His eyes flicked up to yours again, dark, hungry and questioning. You floated, somewhere both above and beneath him.

"Anything...anything you want," you keened, "whatever you want." Something tightened in Kento's jaw. His fingers trailed lower, grazing your plush lips again, dipping beneath to stroke up and down the slick length between your entrance and clit.

"...what a dangerous thing to say, to a man like me...I don't get treats like you often." Kento pressed two fingers slowly into your clenching heat, eyes rolling back with a fractured moan, gripping you to him by the hip. His cock strained against his trousers, and he moved lazily to unzip himself, shaking with self-restraint. He could not bear the way you twisted and squirmed, to feel his thick fingers fucking into you.

"...good girl...how does it feel? As good as your own? Did you touch yourself, like this, when you dreamt about me?" You could only nod in response, moaning and reaching down to clutch his wrist. His fingers curled upwards towards your soft sensitive spot, buried into you up to his knuckles, and swirling his fingertips over the spongy patch. You sobbed into his touch and he folded over you, shushing, pressing kisses to your temples.

"It's alright, darling...I felt it too...I'll show you. How I touched myself...thinking about you." Kento shuddered against your neck, his fingers still working magic into your belly. His cock flopped heavy into his hand, thick, long, and Kento felt so touch-starved as he closed his eyes, raising his thumb to stroke around your clit, imagining it was his weeping cockhead.

He shushed you again, chasing you up the rug as your pleasure built, heat surging through your thighs and belly. Kento couldn't help but fuck into his own fist, lubricated by his pre-cum, overheating with the need to sink himself inside you, and paint you white with his seed. He cracked his neck from side to side. Doubling down, his fingers picked up speed, pressing your clit until you writhed, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

"That's it...that's it...let it happen," Kento whispered into your neck, still fucking into his fist against your belly as you climaxed, hands tangled in his mussed hair, burning under the weight of him. His fingers fucked you through the haze of pleasure, nose stroking into your hair, whispering his praises against your ears; "...so proud of you...such a good job...so proud of you, my little gamble..."

Your thighs threatened to flop to the sides, soft and lazy after your orgasm. Kento nestled himself between them, cockhead stroking between your folds, and you whimpered to feel your sensitive clit nudged. Folded over you, Kento met your eyes. A slightly guilty smile ghosted over his face, his voice shaking, seemingly coming back to himself. He resolved to restrain himself;

"I, uh...usually have better manners. This was unprofessional of me. Ungentlemanly, even. I...I insist we...leave this here, and do this properly. Now, we sh-- haaaaah, fuck-- shit-- you--"

Interrupting Kento, you had waited for his cockhead to stroke down to your entrance before fucking him inside you, rolling your hips up to trap his cock inside your walls. You wailed around the stretch, Kento's cock huge and pulsing inside you, and Kento lost his mind.

Grasping your hips with vicious strength, he cursed, rutting into you with abandon. You felt his fat, blunt cockhead jabbing against your cervix immediately, and Kento leaned into it, tilting your hips to fuck you deeper, overtaken by a primal need.

"...little minx...I offer you--ahhhh fuck-- dinner, and you...you offer me...your cunt...just like you, shit--"

You giggled, breathless against Kento's feral attentions, and the sound shot straight down Kento's spine. Your laughs caught in your throat when he held his hips flush to yours, barely pulling out, bullying into your pussy with no restraint.

You felt the steam of sweat beneath Kento's shirt, felt how badly he needed this, and revelled in the way he fell apart above you, his cock milked by your wet, velvet heat. Kento leaned back just enough to see where his cock disappeared into you.

The sight had him reeling, and he came with a bark, spitting and swearing against his total lack of self-control. You felt his cock twitch and bound inside you, spattering your walls with thick stripes of cum. Kento crumpled onto his elbows, face twisted in euphoric agony to see you bite your lip at him, rolling your hips to milk him of every last drop of cum.

Gasping for just a few moments, before rolling his shoulders with soft cracks again, Kento pulled out of you, flipping you over so your face pressed down into the rug. You squealed to feel your hands drawn behind your back, and the soft shhhhff shhhfff shhhhhffff of his tie being pulled free of his collar.

Face down, and arse up, Kento dipped his fingers into your cum-dripping, twitching hole.

"That's how a boy does it," Kento growled, beginning to thread his tie around your wrists, "now lets show you how a Kingsman does it."

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Getting to wax lyrically about my beloved London was a treat.

Up next: Higuruma Hiromi/Merlin