#the roadside rose

[vandaliatraveler]

Summer has arrived, and with it, the single greatest proliferation of life in Central Appalachia. This is the time of great, ostentatious wildflowers, one more showy and resplendent than the next, each competing with the other for the swarms of pollinators that have emerged to drink from the earth's sweet nectar pots, find their mates, and plant their eggs in the all-too-brief span before their whirring energies have faded into oblivion. At no time do I feel more connected to life's urgent, relentless pulse than in the electric heat of summer; the rich meadows, bogs, streambanks, and hedgerows are my temples and the tiny creatures that come to them to feed and renew their kind are the only intermediaries I need to realize true spiritual peace and joy.

The photos above are from a late afternoon bike ride on Deckers Creek Trail.

[kojiarakiartworks]

November 2003 PDX Portland Oregon U.S.A. 

© KOJI ARAKI Art Works

Daily life and every small thing is the gate to the universe ：）

[mothmiso]

Aibga (2) (3) (4) by Сергей Михненков

[msgmzh]

[raiasintended]

ok. listen. it’s about your girlfriend. you know how we thought she was a crop-blighting witch and we were planning to stone her? so, here’s the thing. every stone we threw drew not blood but like, the black and fathomless rage of a race of titans that were once slain but could not die. and she like, rose from her hastily-shoveled roadside grave as their resubstantiated champion or something. yeah, we’re suffering the onslaught of her vengeance right now. yeah. I guess we inadvertently created that which we had so feared. yeahh. could you like, answer her texts and ask if she’ll stop sloughing our flesh with her baleful gaze every time she sees us. thx in advance

[sanhatis-abyss]

Could this be it? Rock n' Roll?

Does anyone know what rose this is?

[thethirdromana]

More travels with Jonathan Harker, in pictures

Here's the route that Jonathan travels by the public coach today:

I've tried to find copyright-free photos from the actual route, but I've not had much success. So this tour is going to be a lot more vibes-based than reflective of the actual sights out of the stagecoach window. Think of it like Jonathan's Transylvanian Pinterest board.

(Scenery photos are all of Transylvania, assuming I can trust the sites where I found them, but not necessarily the right time of year or the right bit of Transylvania. It's a big place.)

"Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road."

"There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom—apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals."

"In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame."

"Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly."

"As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink."

"By the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves."

"Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys."

And a bonus: Bran Castle is marked as 'Dracula's Castle' despite being even further away from the locations in the book than most of my vibes-based photography choices. It also doesn't resemble Bram Stoker's descriptions of the castle.

But more importantly, it looks really cool. So here it is:

[sukunasteeth]

The Pleasure's All Mine - Chapter One

Based on this post from @winterrbluess

If Shibuya had a pulse, it would be at the rate of a hummingbird's wings.

The human race operates at a speed that oftentimes seems too quick to catch up with. It had been that way ever since you moved to the city for work about three years ago.

You came for a corporate job made up of ink black suits and pencil skirts, smiles that felt more on the side of uncanny valley than they did of genuine kindness, and handshakes from skin cold with carpal tunnel. You lived a corporate life. Everything is muted tones of tan and relies heavily on the concept of "modernizing". You wake up, go to work, go home, work on what you couldn't finish at the office, fall asleep on your colorless coffee table, and wake up to your alarm going off what feels like hours too soon. It was a cyclical cycle.

And the day you broke it, happened to be the day you met Sukuna.

~

You noticed the new shop on the end of the street maybe three weeks ago. It was so out of place, after all. The building was the only non-skyscraper to be seen on the block. It was a shriveled up little thing, built out of chipping brick that seemed to teeter on the edge of dilapidation from the inability to meet building codes. Overgrown ivy crawled up the sides of it and it still had plots of dirt in the front for planting as opposed to concrete and metal benches. 

When you had first seen the For Sale sign a few months ago, you were sure they were going to tear it down and pave over it- happy to be rid of the only spot of character left in the business district. Then a new sign appeared over the door, one that looked hand carved out of wood and haphazardly painted over so that you could make out the words "Carnation King".

It’s funny, flowers had never been much of an interest to you. You had seen them as just another task to take care of when you returned home after a long day. Even filling a vase with water always sounded like more effort than it was worth. But as the days blend together from monotony, you find yourself desperate for color.

You changed your walking route to work so that you can pass by the shop everyday. You knew nothing about flowers. You could barely tell a rose bud apart from a tulip, but that didn't stop you from ogling at the new bouquets and potted plants that lined the sidewalk every time you passed them. Signs made out of toothpicks and painters tape said words like “Butterfly Ranunculus” and “Brown-Eyed Susan” and learning their names became one of your favorite things to do. You never stepped foot inside, and yet the flower shop was now one of your happy places. 

You would meander by on your lunches and watch the butterflies play. You would walk by in the morning and smell freshly watered earth still hanging in the air. On your way home, when the sun was at its fullest shine, you would walk beneath the misters hung under the lip of the roof, and the coolness of the water droplets left behind on your skin saw you all the home. 

You hadn’t realized how important the flower shop was to your daily routine until the day it was interrupted. 

It happened to be one of the only days you had been forced by your workload to stay past sunset for overtime. You didn’t do it for the money, you did it because your boss had asked you nicely. But as you finally exit the office building for the night, you find yourself regretting staying so late. 

You hated walking home in the dark. Even though Japan was notorious for its low crime rates, that didn't mean it was an innocent city. After 9pm, your street was notorious for being a ghost town. The only signs of life were the few work martyrs left in their floor to ceiling window offices- acting as makeshift streetlights. There were only a few lights on the way home, and their solidarity only seemed to pronounce the darkness along the rest of the empty roadside. When you were just an intern, before you got better hours and were finally promoted to the shining 9-5 that everyone dreams about, you used to take your heels off and sprint back to your apartment. Always weary of what you couldn’t see. At the time, you didn’t know that the scariest people don’t have to hide in the dark. 

You hadn’t planned on walking past the shop that night. It was closed. It had to be. Normal flower shops closed well before 7 pm let alone 9. But the moment you touch the sidewalk outside your building, you see light glowing against the dense night. 

The shop at the end of the street was draped in tiny fairy lights. Every square inch of brick was twinkling slowly, glimmering like resting fireflies. It looked almost otherworldly in comparison to the towering pitch black shadows of corporate offices surrounding it. In fact, the effect of the glowing lights against the mirror windows made it look like the shop was hanging in space. 

Outside, the flowers you had walked past in the afternoon had been replaced with new pots, overflowing with buds you had never seen before. The usual delicate smell of Honeysuckle and Roses was now one of the sweetest scents you had ever experienced, so sweet, you could almost taste it on your tongue. Warm golden light floods out of the shop's window and the numerous white and yellow petals seem to gather and hold onto its dull shine. 

You didn’t even realize you had completely abandoned your original plan of taking the shortcut home until you were standing in front of the Carnation King with your eyes entranced on the display before you. One flower in particular had caught your eye, a huge luscious display of delicate tow-colored petals, tall with endless growth and reaching towards the moonlight as though it’s been waiting all day to see it. You can’t help but reach out to touch, and yet just before your fingertips make it, you feel coolness trickling onto your hand, breaking the spell that the lights and colors had placed on you. 

 "Evening Primrose." 

The suddenness of a voice beside you should have put you in fight or flight mode. It should have been a cold bucket of water to the face. Adrenaline spiking, you should be sprinting in the opposite direction. Instead, you found the tranquil trance that the flowers had put you in to have a lasting effect. 

You blink at the man who seemed to appear out of thin air standing next to you, and the first thing you notice are his eyes. Such a dark shade of golden rich hazel-brown, they were nearly shining like two cuts of Cat’s-Eye. They gleamed suspicion. 

He was much taller than you, but where most are lanky you can see strong muscles and broad shoulders. Collared sleeves rolled halfway up his arms revealed skin kissed rich and deep by prolonged sunshine. Tattoos slithered around his wrists and had made their way to his sculptured face, meticulously drawn black lines frame an annoyed expression. When you see the rest of him, you’re certainly not expecting to notice tufts from a head of true strawberry blond hair hang in his frigid gaze.

In one of his hands is a water can, still pouring trickling water onto your momentarily petrified fingertips, and in the other hand is a cigarette, only a third of the way lit. 

The sight of him takes you so far back, if the sound of his voice wasn’t still echoing in your head you might not have remembered that he had even said anything to you. 

"I'm sorry?" You pull your hand away from the water spray, drying it on your slacks.

The man takes half a drag of the cigarette before he answers you. Slow and unrushed. "They're called Evening Primrose.” He speaks through a cloud of tobacco smoke, glancing at the flowers that had caught your eye. His lip twitches slightly, "Need full sunlight but only bloom in moonlight. Fickle bastards." 

Okay. Owner. Mean owner. Unexpectedly rough-and-tumble looking for being the caretaker of a flower shop. You glance at his apron, but you don’t find a name tag. He takes a step back while you’re searching for it, but he only moves far enough to start watering the next plant on the table. 

You look back to the Evening Primrose, and even the smell of the burning cigarettes is nothing in the face of the scent that had pulled you in earlier. The two flavors mix like a tea garden on fire. You caress the petals once more, unthinkingly. 

"They smell incredible." You mutter, mostly to yourself. 

"Not them.” His voice is colder than his eyes. He flicks a bit of ash onto the cement behind him, and tilts his head in the direction of a different bush, one that’s even bigger than the healthy Primrose, with hundreds of tiny buds that flutter in the nighttime air. “That'd be her." 

"”Her”?" You repeat, wondering if you heard the man correctly. 

"Night Jasmine." He answers in return. 

As standoffish as he was, you still found yourself making mental notes of the names he had given you. When you look at the Night Jasmine directly, it’s clear that the wind was sweeping that delicious smell straight from the direction of its honey-hued petals. You’re not sure you had seen plants like this at even the most expensive hotels and events that you had been invited to. Maybe tiny cuttings, but nothing to this size and level of lush. 

"Well she's very pretty." You reply softly, letting out an airy laugh through your nose at his use of pronouns. The man doesn’t even crack a smile in return, his eyes giving you a pointed once over. 

“And invasive.” He adds, resting his gaze on yours once again. 

There’s a thick silence that follows after, during which you consider apologizing. For what? You were unsure, but somehow standing in his towering shadow and feeling his accusing eyes had you feeling like you were in the wrong for merely existing in his presence. 

Before you can think to just turn around, take off your heels, and sprint home like you had years ago, his voice demands your attention again. 

"So,” he says, “you gonna tell me why you’re stalking me, then?"

Now, surely, you were hearing things. 

"E-Excuse me?" 

He seems to take in your shock with some thought while he takes another languid puff, "You come by here every single day,” He lets the smoke go from his lungs, ”but you never buy a thing. In fact, you never even come in." The tone of his voice tilts towards annoyance. “You just stand at the window and pout like some sad puppy.” 

"I-I work in the building next door?" You offer, bewildered by the entire situation. Were you dreaming? Had you fallen asleep at your desk and given yourself some sort of stress-induced nightmare?

"Hmm," The man takes you in without breaking your gaze, tilting his head to the side while he takes another drag of his cigarette. "You don't seem like the pencil pusher type to me."

You’re not sure why that comment makes you defensive. In retrospect, it was even a compliment to you. You hated sitting at a desk all day, watching the sun rise and set over a stack of papers. But you had worked hard to get to the position you were in now and it wasn’t the first time a man had told you that you didn’t look like you belonged. Before you can catch yourself in the name of politeness you find yourself scoffing out, "Sorry, but you don't seem like much of a florist to me."

The silence returns. You watch as the disdainful glint to his eyes shatters, and is replaced with a split second of surprise. He blinks and it’s only then that you realize how much larger this man is in comparison to you. If you had seen him walking down the street, you’d probably think to yourself “I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side” and yet here you were, on his bad-getting-worse side from the moment your eyes met. 

Or so you had thought. But, as the antithesis of anger crosses his hardened features, and an unexpected bitten-back grin takes the place of his glower, you’re not sure what to think anymore. 

He snorts out a laugh, finally releasing you from the cold grasp of his unbreakable gaze. He takes another step back and focuses his attention on watering the flowers again. "Touche." 

The cigarette gets flicked from his fingertips and he smears it beneath his boot into a tiny canal of rocks separating the soil of the garden beds from the cement of the sidewalk. 

"So, you gonna buy something then? Or just stand there with that strange look on your face all night?" He tilts his head to mirror your stance, but the amused grin remains in place of your confused gape. “I close in five minutes.”

“I have to hand it to you, you’re a fantastic salesman.” You’ve never met a stranger more brash and uncaring, so you were giving it a shot in return. It only serves to further his easy smiles.

“Am I not offering the right thing?” Now apparently after confirming to himself that you weren’t a threat, his tone of voice seems almost playful. It only serves to further your confusion. “Hmm, a lock of my hair maybe?” 

“I am not a stalker!” 

“Then buy something.” 

You take a deep breath through your nose. Feeling the need to save face when you haven’t done anything wrong in the first place. Yet, the thought of turning away empty handed had embarrassment threatening to heat up your neck and cheeks. You didn't care if you had to drop a pretty penny, you just didn't want to boost this man's ego.

"Those." You point to the nearest flower, another pot of proud blossoms sprouting from a stem unseen past the abundant greenery of strong leaves. Soft moon colored petals unfurl at the top, and sprouting from the center are tiny, deep yellow pollen covered buds. 

The man follows your pointed finger and graces your choice with all of one second before he turns back to his watering. "Not those." He decides flatly. 

You’ve never made a more difficult purchase. "Why not?" 

"Casablanca Lilies need constant care. A white-collar like you couldn't keep up. And I don't raise 'em so people can kill 'em."

"I think I can take care of a plant, thank you." You retort, sarcasm oozing off your sentence. 

It seems you can only really catch this man’s attention when your tone has a touch of negativity, because suddenly he’s back to watching you. 

There’s a pregnant pause before his next words. He searches nothing but your eyes for a moment, as if to gauge. 

"Wanna bet?" He cocks a brow. 

And it angers you how handsome you find this annoying, pompous, self-entitled stranger. 

"Bet?” You repeat incredulously. “Are you making a sale or trying to fight?” 

Instantly, as if you were offering the two scenarios as possible options, his smile darkens and he takes a step forward instead of continuing his line of watering. 

That was all the reply you needed. You had seen the movies. The documentaries. Handsome men, provoking women, hungry eyes, it never added up to something good. So that was your que to keep walking straight past him and go home. 

“Right, I don’t need this.” You scoff. 

And yet, just before you're able to step aside him, like a true businessman, he says just the right thing to keep you there.

"So I'm right then?" 

The sound of the droplets from the watering can against the cement in place of your footsteps has you cringing in self-disappointment. You force your head to turn and meet his infuriating amusement. 

"What's the bet?" You grind out from clenched teeth. His eyes fall to your mouth, and he takes a pointed second to look at your bite before he steps away from you and back to the place where your interaction began. He reaches beside the huge Evening Primrose bush to reveal a small green potted sapling with the same leaf pattern. 

He holds it out to you and you reach out to take the little thing like you’re scared for its safety. 

"Come back in two weeks. If it's alive, I'll give you the lilies for free." The calmness in his tone of voice doesn't match the excitement glittering in his dark hazel-brown eyes. "And if it's dead, you owe me." He adds, rather nonchalantly. 

"Owe you what?" You squint your eyes at him, maybe then you could see the little horns that match his devilish little grin. 

He shrugs, almost too innocently, "A favor. Haven't thought of it yet." The stranger gives you one last once over, but this one leaves the strangest chill running down your spine. His eyes seem to follow it, as if he can see it rattling through you. "Should I? You're so confident you'll win, I didn't think I'd have to."

Now it was your turn to look him up and down, tattoos, scars and a face that seemed too comfortable with that murderous look he had first given you.

"...There's no way you're just a florist."

The comment is completely ignored as he leans forward, invading your airspace a little too close for comfort, and murmuring the words "Yes or no?" with a thick sugar coating. 

"You're on." You hope your own words convey your complete disdain for him… and not that tiny glimmer of attraction you feel prickling under your skin. 

A surprised laugh seems to escape him, as though he didn't expect you to make the deal. "You're either quite confident in yourself or a damn fool." 

Like a rabbit bearing tiny teeth in the face of a lion, you mirror him and lean in closer until there's only a small space between the two of you. "Maybe I just like showing up cocky men."

"Oh, and I'm gonna love a favor from such a mouthy brat." You're lucky he pulls away from you after he practically purrs his threat. There's another thoughtful pause before he reaches into his apron pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes again.

"Two weeks. I know where you work too now." He lights another, and examines the cherry after he takes the first drag, smiling like it just told him a joke. “Don’t forget.” 

[transgenderer]

kudzu has such a reputation as an inevitable threat, like its common in near-future sci fi for kudzu to have become massively out of control and grown everywhere but its been around for a long time now, and its like. obviously fine. i mean its not GREAT but its not like a *huge deal*. anyway i wanted to see if i was right about this and i am:

its like. its fine

In news media and scientific accounts and on some government websites, kudzu is typically said to cover seven million to nine million acres across the United States. But scientists reassessing kudzu’s spread have found that it’s nothing like that. In the latest careful sampling, the U.S. Forest Service reports that kudzu occupies, to some degree, about 227,000 acres of forestland, an area about the size of a small county and about one-sixth the size of Atlanta. That’s about one-tenth of 1 percent of the South’s 200 million acres of forest. By way of comparison, the same report estimates that Asian privet had invaded some 3.2 million acres—14 times kudzu’s territory. Invasive roses had covered more than three times as much forestland as kudzu.

And though many sources continue to repeat the unsupported claim that kudzu is spreading at the rate of 150,000 acres a year—an area larger than most major American cities—the Forest Service expects an increase of no more than 2,500 acres a year.

The hype didn’t come out of nowhere. Kudzu has appeared larger than life because it’s most aggressive when planted along road cuts and railroad embankments—habitats that became front and center in the age of the automobile. As trees grew in the cleared lands near roadsides, kudzu rose with them. It appeared not to stop because there were no grazers to eat it back. But, in fact, it rarely penetrates deeply into a forest; it climbs well only in sunny areas on the forest edge and suffers in shade.

kind of a painfully on the nose metaphor for the way the appearance of things swamps the actual truth of thing in "common knowledge". the growth pattern of kudzu is *literally* superficial

[firstlawcedarprairie]

Roses blooming by the roadside

[kojiarakiartworks]

November 2003 PDX Portland Oregon U.S.A. 

© KOJI ARAKI Art Works

Daily life and every small thing is the gate to the universe ：）

[coldfanbou]

Kinktober Smuts List

Body Positivity (Jeongyeon body worship)

The Beast From Down Under (Mina Tentacle)

Familial Connection (Gaeul Incest)

Roadside Help Saebyeol x LE

Composing with Restraints (IU Bondage, marking)

A Cold Treat (Jini Foodplay)

Raffle Winner (Viviz free use)

Warm Water, Warmer Bodies (Stepmom JIU shower)

Big Trouble for Small Soyeon (Soyeon Size kink)

Purification or Desecration (Sana corruption)

Out and About (Sowon Free use, Public)

A Filling Time (GP Jihyo, Jeongyeon Threesome Breeding)

Maid Life (Monday Free use, maid, bondage)

Confidence Boost (Eunbi, breeding, gangbang)

A Different Kind of Facial (Tiffany Massage)

Chauffeur (Taeyeon Car sex, armpit)

Upon Approval (Rose Jisoo edging, sub reader)

Mile High (Sana mile high club)

New Sponsor, New Toy (Sullyoon Sana rimming)

The Best Kind of Sound )Dahyun Exhibitionism auralism kink)

If Only You Knew (Minju Free Use, Public, Humiliation)

Extra Credit (Jeongyeon edging, breastfeeding)

Vengeance comes by Cucking (Natty Hanni cheating cucking)

How to move up in the world (Hyuna Somi Lesbian, mind break)

Sharing is Caring (Jeewon Swan tit play, snowballing)

Breeding Heejin (Heejin daddy kink, breeding kink)

Taming Her (Chaeyeon GP, brat taming, orgasm denial)

Between Two Hard Things (Sana, Dahyun, Momo Threesome GP dubcon)

Fight and Make Up (Jihyo slight bondage edging)

Just A Warning (Hyolyn Handcuffs, rough sex)

Owned By Twice (GP NaMiSaMo, breastfeeding, edging)

[basicallyyjustdogs]

I wanna be roadkill Find me a mile up ahead Lying there on the roadside Say, don’t worry now, it’s already dead

series 1: roadkill/longing

roadkill, searows // cyanotypes, emilio hernandez martin // hard times, ethel cain // child wearing a red scarf, eduoard vuillard // empty stomach, rachel sabini // thirstiness is not equal division, kaveh akbar // salvage, hedgie choi // ‘deer at night’, george shiras III // kinder than man, athea davis // best barbarian, roger reeves // ‘johannes land, suite no.2’, simon bang // my photograph // postcolonial love poem, natalie diaz // the dislocated room, richard siken // the moon rose over the bay. I had a lot of feelings, donika kelly // abstract (psychopomp), hozier // miniatures, cassandra de alba // from collected poems; between aging and old, jack gilbert // the favourite (2018), dir. yorgos lanthimos // unidad (oneness), pablo neruda // least of all, natalie wee

[thosewickedlovelies]

Crossroads | Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: You set out with the intention of selling your soul to the devil. What if, instead, you can make a deal with someone else?

Tags: none YET. GN!Reader. not an age gap fic.

Words: 2,297

Note: Hiii friends. I was not expecting this piece to grab me the way it did, but I guess the vibes tickled my brain in a way I needed. This was fully inspired by this moodboard by @almostfoxglove. I haven'y fully decided where this story will go, but I think I will end up writing more for it, so. lol enjoy! 🙏🏼💗

Masterlist

It was a dark and stormy night.

When else would you expect to meet the devil at a crossroads?

—

Dark clouds roiled overhead, dulling the light as far as the eye could see. It wasn’t strictly night time- it had been closer to late afternoon when you set off- but the weather had quickly taken an ominous turn. The wind whipped past in bursts, pushing and tugging at you in away that somehow felt mocking. The air smelled electric, full of danger and promise and the dust of the desolate way you walked.

You didn’t know what to expect.

You knew what people told you to expect, of course. A creature uncanny of eye, with a personality as persuasive as a siren song. A bag of tricks and twisting words the likes of which a mere mortal could never hope to compete with. Nobody you’d been able to find had actually met him, though.

The devil, that is.

It wasn’t a stylistic exaggeration. There was no other reason you’d be walking this unmarked road, the pavement growing more worn and cracked the longer you walked. Legend said to set your feet to the most deserted road you could find, with whiskey in your pocket and the devil in your thoughts. The rest would take care of itself.

So far, the legends rang true. The longer you walked, the more the trappings of civilization had fallen away. No lane markings, no road signs, not even the specter of a gas station sign in the distance. Even the scrubby roadside vegetation had vanished- nothing was visible beyond the brown dust all around the faded black strip you walked upon.

The appearance of a stop sign smacked you in the face like…well, like a stop sign. In the jaundiced atmosphere, the vivid red of it was jarring. Lurid. A splash of blood against the dull surroundings. Those four authoritative letters were almost bright enough to keep your attention from the crossroads beyond.

Almost.

A gray intersection in the featureless yellow landscape. X marks the spot.

Your shoes scuffing against the pavement was the only sound.

In the dead center of the intersection, you halted. The wind rose again, howling to a pitch like a summoning whistle; just as quickly it dropped to the stillness of bated breath. The sound and the silence jangled some long-dormant human instinct within you. Your ragged breaths sounded unnaturally loud. You spun in a slow circle, squinting to the h. The sound and the silence jangled some long-dormant instinct in you. Your breath echoed in your ears. You spun in a slow circle, squinting to the horizon of all four roads to be sure there was no mysterious figure approaching in the distance. Finally you straightened, your hands on your hips. Where the fuck is the-

“Well, well, well. What have we here?”

–

A voice all but purred from behind you. The words were draped in a deep southern drawl; honestly, that should have been the one thing you did expect. 

That same instinct warned you to turn around slowly. Just beyond the stop sign, a figure was sauntering into view. His hands were in the pockets of well-worn jeans. Work boots cushioned his swaggering gait; across a broad set of shoulders, a utilitarian button-down stretched. He could have been any blue-collar man you’d ever met.

It was the eyes that gave him away.

Brimstone and pyrite, ageless and knowing- with something impish around the edges. 

It was in the tilt of his head, in the creases fanning out from his eyes, as he smiled his way toward you. The hair on the back of your neck stood up.

“Are you- who I’m looking for?” Somehow it didn’t seem like a good idea to outright accuse him of being who you suspected.

He came to a halt once he crossed into the intersection. His smile didn’t falter. “That depends. Who’re you looking for?”

Your heart beat fast. “Someone to make a deal with.”

His smile broadened. “The devil.”

You nodded.

–

“Do you have my gift?”

Does he mean…You withdrew the bottle you’d carried all this way. 

Whiskey in your pocket, indeed. His eyes lit on the bottle with satisfaction, and an unholy shiver licked past you at being even tangentially connected to this being’s pleasure.

He conjured up two glass tumblers and poured a measure for each of you. For all your uncertainty preceding this meeting, seeing his anticipation of this experience just like any other man…your tongue loosened. “If you can summon glasses, couldn’t you also summon the whiskey?”

He’s examining the contents of his glass, swirling the liquid and studying the color. “I could. But then some might forget to bring me a gift. Then we wouldn’t be able to negotiate, and you would have wasted this whole journey.” He waved an arm to indicate your surroundings. “So it’s really me doin’ us both a favor by choosing my own birthday present.” 

He lifted the glass to his nose and took a long sniff. “Besides, I can’t summon what I don’t know. I’m inclined to be a little nicer to folk who bring me something original.” The glass finally touched his lips. He took a slow (showy, you think) sip, rolling the liquid around his mouth and, eventually, swallowed. Even the act of swallowing didn’t seem to conclude his tasting- he smacked his mouth softly, processing the finish.

Finally, he looked at his glass, then at you, in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s some quality shit.”

"Original enough?”

"I'd say so.” He inclined his head to you in a gesture of approval.

He gave the impression of lounging then, of somehow leaning back and spreading out although there was nothing but air around him- until all at once there was something, and he was settled into one of two chairs set at a small round table, none of which had existed half a second before.

Your mouth went dry. The glass you held felt cold and heavy against your suddenly sweaty fingers.

The man gave you a disarming grin. 

He nodded toward the untouched drink in your hand. “Why don’t you try yours, and then we can get down to business?”

You looked down at your glass, the liquid the same color as the desertous land all around. “Do we both have to drink before we can strike a deal?”

The man lifted a brow. “That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

A nonanswer. Nothing less than what you should have anticipated. He wasn’t a man, after all. For all intents and purposes, the creature before you was the devil. 

You wondered if that narrative wasn’t a bit overdramatic. Was that really always the scenario? Human strikes deal with non-human entity- and then spins the story out of proportion when they can’t hold up their end of the bargain?

The part of your brain musing on human nature and mythology felt very separate from the part controlling your body as you sat down at the table. Everything seemed to have the surreal quality of a dream. The whiskey seared on its way down your throat.

The devil’s eyes smoldered with amber fire. 

Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the table and folded his hands. “So. What can I do for you?”

You told him your tale. You glossed over the most tragic details, thinking to save yourself some embarrassment if at all possible. To the devil’s credit, he appeared to listen. For all the stories of human folly he must have heard in his endless lifetime, he kept his eyes on you as you spoke and reacted in all the right places, his mouth twitching or his eyes narrowing in turn.

That same errant part of your brain turned its attention to the devil’s looks. Did he appear the same way to everyone? This wasn’t an imitation of any real-life person, you were certain. You’d remember meeting someone like this. His hair was a deep gray threaded with silver, full of curls and swoops. Though older, he seemed to ooze strength and virility. He was unfairly appealing, you decided. It had to be a calculated decision on his part. 

When you finished, he sat back in his chair. Took a sip of his whiskey. “So, what,” he said, “precisely, do you want from me?” 

He leveled his gilded stare at you.

You shivered. No amount of beauty could detract from the aura of power that emanated from him. While not overtly compelling you to any specific action, it called to something in you- it made you want to confess your wishes, declare your wants with relish.

You ran your finger over the carven edges of the decoration on your glass. “What’s your name?”

He paused with his glass halfway to the table. “My name ain’t worth your soul, honey.” His glass hit the table with a definitive thunk, but the look on his face was gentler. A wry smile.

“That’s not what I meant.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “I’m just trying to be polite. Do you have a name?”

“What makes you think my name isn’t Lucifer?” His teeth flashed in a wicked grin.

Despite the cacophony of butterfly wings in your belly, you kept your face impassive, only lifting your eyebrows.

His grin gradually faded. Something guarded replaced it as he seemed to assess you, eventually coming to a decision. “Once upon a time, I went by Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeated. “That’s an odd nickname for ‘Lucifer Morningstar’.”

He snorted. “Well, I ain’t Lucifer Morningstar, so that’d be why.”

The world tipped beneath you. “You’re…not?” Blood roared in your ears. If this…being wasn’t the devil, then who had you just poured out your life story to?

He was quick to pick up on your rising panic. “Whoa, hey, easy now. I’m here in his place, see? He can only be in so many places at once. Plus, these kinds of deal are sorta small fry to him nowadays. I’m one of his…representatives, you might say.”

“...Oh.” Your breathing slowly began to steady. Okay. That was fine. This Joel clearly had some kind of power, given his summoning of the glasses and the table. You were prepared to bet it was eldritch, too, judging by the current (but not constant) sulfurous yellow of his eyes. Maybe you’d get him to put your deal in writing. And have him be sue-able by human courts. Yeah. That would be fine.

Across the table, Joel was eyeing you. “You all right?”

Adrenaline had left a chill in your veins, but you shook it off. “I didn’t know it worked like that,” you said.

“No reason you should.” Joel shrugged. He sat back in his chair, but concern still lurked in his gaze where it rested on you.

“So. Small fry, huh? Not sure how I feel about my soul being so devalued.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

The corner of his mouth ticked. “I could arrange a meetin’ for you if you want. You could take your feedback directly to the big man himself.” He sat back in his chair, imitating your petulant posture.

His suggestion took the bluster out of you. Face someone even more uncanny than Joel? With feedback? Oh, no.

“I’ll think about it,” you sniffed. 

His mouth curved up further.

“Is…is the price always the soul?”

Joel eyed you contemplatively, up and down. “Not always. Depends on the ask. Depends on the bargainer.” He winked.

“On the representative,” you clarified.

“Mmhm.” He waited, watching you think with a citrine shimmer to those otherworldly eyes. The minute changes in your facial expression seemed to fascinate him, his gaze flitting from your eyes to your brow to your mouth.

It wasn’t helping your thought process.

What precisely did you want from him? You thought you’d known, when you assumed you’d be bargaining with Lucifer himself, and for your soul. When the price had been your soul, you’d had an accordingly-sized ask. But if you could bargain him down…

“What if I need more time to decide on my ask? What if…meeting you has changed things?”

His head tilted, gaze sharpening. “Oh?”

“Maybe…we could meet again to negotiate further?”

“Extend our working relationship?” Joel smirked, but there was an undercurrent of wariness in it. You could see the gears in his mind turning as he assessed you, his eyes taking on a darker glimmer.

“Tell you what.” He stood, and your body went on alert. “I’ll come up and meet with you three more times. After that, you can tell me what you want, and we’ll make a deal.

“Well...another deal.” Joel smirked again, but this time there was no reading what lay behind it, his golden eyes hard and glittering. He held out a hand. 

You stood with your arm only half-extended. Your heart rate was picking up again. “If I decided that I didn’t want to make a deal, would there be a punishment?”

Joel stared at you, his eyes narrowing. At last he said, “A price. My time ain’t free, you know.”

Before you could stammer out another question he rolled his eyes. “It wouldn’t be your soul.”

He re-extended his hand. He lifted a single, expectant brow.

The desert wind tickled your face. There was nothing supernatural about it now- it was just a breeze, the same air that had cooled and comforted you your whole life. 

You breathed it in. Then you placed your hand in the devil’s, and he squeezed it tight.

A slow smile spread across Joel’s face. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

The wind kicked up abruptly, and for a second you feared. The gale dashed sand across your eyes and brought a strange smell to your nose. When it cleared, and your vision with it, everything- the table, the whiskey, the crossroads, Joel himself- was gone.

Thanks for reading! 💗

Masterlist

[kaccvcate]

Can we get more detail pics/explanation on everything you've modded on your van? It's insanely dreamy.

you mean THEE Crazy Horse? This might take more than one post. I'll give you the grand tour

here she is from the outside of course. the rear seal on the back of the engine is broken, plus some small things I fucked up figuring that out (lol.) for now she rests, my noble steed

my little brother kenny made this bracelet for me. Obviously the inside of my car has to be red, maybe it sounds silly to some but for me there is simply no other way. That's why I painted it with house paint.

when I got the van there was a lot of trash from children's toys, candy wrappers, some hay and bits of livestock feed, crayon drawings on the walls, and this earring. Oh, and a johnny cash cd in the player (hell yeah)

lots of stickers from various friends (they tend to peel off but sometimes I glue them back on if I remember in time)

the fresh roses were from a funeral Matt Cockrell's mom provided flowers for, there's some carnations he gave me from her shop when we were together as well, and some type of beach growing succulant flower from my friend Fang in San Francisco. Also my little crawfish and some crystals given to me by an extremely talented mechanic who worked on my car in Mobile, Alabama

he also gave me this hood ornament, which she'll wear someday. I'd love to have one of the ones actually shaped like a cat as well (ideally I have a large amount of jaguar hood ornaments on her, in the garden of my mind) The sticker on my steering wheel I got from a roadside zoo called Tiger World

One night I slept in the cemetery, and a big storm came through and blew the flowers off a lot of the graves. I picked up some of the best ones to keep. The little elephant was from my friend Joey in new york (the one depicted as a bald eagle in one of my comics)

talisman from Silent Thunder

(to be continued)