#sopping wet beast of a devil

[mslanna]

I wouldn’t mind all the ideas you have for Don’t you understand! I could be a mini series I’ll read it all!! One of the idea I can suggest is his point of view! I’m so eager about this! Omg! This man stole my sanity!!!!

not giving away too much but the first thing coming to my mind for continuation stars thusly:

Raphael looked down at the human presenting the Orphic hammer back to him on bended knee.

But of course it has to be perfect if it is his point of view. Has. To. 😤

[mothchimeart]

The newborn reaper, in solitude.

[cappuccino-bear]

I kinda recall you mentioning that Judas works under Satan (?) why is he in the Basement? Is he trying to catch/kill Isaac for Satan (or whoever)? Also what’s he like, he’s my babygirl

Oh Judas, wet sopping beast of a guy, absolutely miserable, straight up a moist paper tissue.

!!!SUICIDE MENTIONS!!!

After betraying Jesus and hanging himself he was not surprised to be in Hell, but he really did not want to do much other than suffer for all eternity at first. Like yeah, just dunk me in lava or something, I deserve it. Satan, of course, has other plans, and knows exactly what to do to get him on his side.

So he calls him, and tells him about how Peter renounced Jesus' teachings in front of him, three times, and yet he died a saint, an evangelist, chosen by God. Judas is confused, why was Peter forgiven then? And the Devil says how it's unfair, that Judas had punished himself, that he had died to repent, that he was a true martyr, even more than Peter or even Christ.

Big disclaimer: Judas killed himself because he could not live with his guilt after trying to turn over the prize money, Peter felt the same exact guilt and yet picked himself up and apologized and was there to look at his dearest friend die. Peter accepted his wrongdoings and moved on, that is what got him forgiven (and in Heaven, too).

And deep down, Judas knows. Judas knows he's in the wrong when he swears to wotk for Satan, Judas knows it's wrong to tempt people, Judas knows it's wrong to write a book of spells to use to become more and more demonic. But when you're in an echo chamber, when everybody praises you for it, it's hard to admit it even to yourself.

Judas ended up in the Basement after Satan realized Azazel failed and turned on him. He does not necessarily think Judas is better at this job, especially because he cannot reach to talk him directly, but Judas is not only competent, but a perfect little puppet, so of course he goes...

Judas is, for lack of a better word, absolutely pathetic. He tries hiding his insecurities in a thick layer of holier than thou (or hellier?) attitude, thinking he's best for following someone actually strong like Satan. As you can imagine he's not popular in the group at first, he comes off as an obnoxious prick, and solidifies it when he treats people he knew in life (Laz, Maggie, and Bethany to an extent) like stains on his jacket. He has a begruding respect for Azazel and Lilith as fellow demons, and honestly thinks Samson is just a beefy idiot, he will eventually pick him up and break him in half like a twig, cuz he gets on everyone's nerves. Also no one allows him close to Isaac, they do not trust him not to hurt or manipulate him, and Azazel and Cain like to get on his nerves on purpose.

Trust me when I say, at some point someone gets tired of his shit and rips him a new one, on how he let his life go to down a drain hole because he could not admit he let greed consume him, and how since he cannot go "woe is me" he's just getting worse and worse to avoid trying to fix one mistake, just giving up on it. We'll se what happens later ( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)

[miyalove]

⋆｡˚⁀➷ WRAPPED UP.

⤷ pairing. ceo!kuroo tetsuro x (female) secretary!reader

⤷ genre. fluff, smut, office au, friends with benefits au

⤷ warnings. swearing, taboo relationship, the use of princess as a nickname, possessiveness, messy sex, rough sex, begging, brief mentions of degradation, ass slapping, ass groping, teasing, (unexpected) sir kink, manhandling, dom!kuroo, sub!reader, power play, spitting, consumption of another person’s spit, lingerie, dirty talk, penetrative sex, sex without a condom (please be safe, kids), *unedited

⤷ note. this might be one of the dirtiest things i have EVER written... so i hope you enjoy! and of course, happy valentines day ♡

1.6k | what's a better valentine’s day gift for your boss than yourself?

the relationship you and kuroo have is a bit taboo. the secretary and the ceo. with the way you sway your hips with a little more emphasize when you leave his office, the way you laugh at all his jokes, the way your body dip downs (ass in the air looking absolutely perfect) to grab at fallen papers. of course, something was going to happen. you were practically betting on it. 

but of course, it takes two to start the devil’s conga line.

it was kuroo who wanted you to stay later than usual. only you and him in his big office space and yet he urged you to stay, big hands rubbing at the inside of your thighs. it was him who insisted on how sexy you looked in the middle of meetings; your hair neatly tucked behind your ears, lips pouted and a fire behind your eyes that would make any man weak. it was kuroo that guided you to his desk, smile bright and eyes glowing with mischief because he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. you can’t complain though, you want it too. 

he grabs at your waist turning you around so your thighs are firmly pressed against his desk. the lace you have on perfectly shapes your body. it presses at your delicate skin, digging and reaching into all the places kuroo wishes he could touch. he swears he could stare at you all day like this; bent over, dripping pussy on display just for him.

this was different though.

no matter how many times you walked in his office with your alluring eyes. kuroo prided himself on being professional. there was a natural attraction between the two of you, that much is obvious, but for the sake of his company, kuroo never made a move. the feeling of belittlement against you for ‘sleeping your way up’ would make him stay awake at night with guilt. however, tonight things were different. maybe it was the fact that this was your first valentines together or maybe fate just has a really niche sense of humor, but whatever the case; you’re still sopping wet and begging to be fucked.

his hands roam your body. he moves slowly, studying every curve and dip like you’re the latest from leonardo de vinci. ah yes, the redness from when i smacked her ass contrast perfectly to the color of her eyes. you’re beautiful. he desperately craves to say it but the words die on his tongue before he can speak. instead, he lets his actions talk.

“it’s too bad these have to go, princess.” a single finger traces your lace cladded entrance. the action alone has you whimpering. “i’ll buy you another set though.” you feel him shift from behind, body leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the small of your back. 

one of his hands snake up to your neck, yanking at the roots of your tresses. the force makes you gasp. a mixture of pain, shock, and pleasure rushes through you. your head whips back in an uncomfortable position, but you’re able to see kuroo’s perfectly sculptured face, so really you have no complaints. “how do you feel about red?” 

the sound of fabric ripping in half has you concern, at first. but kuroo tetsuro, for as long as you’ve known him has been a no bullshit kind of man. he teases and jokes but when it comes down to business, he’s a cutthroat beast. so it makes sense for him to move on as fast as he came.

there’s no time for you to wonder in astonishment at how he throws your (now useless) panties across his office. he’s already pulling out his cock and sinking into you until his body presses right against your back. naturally, your lips part into a pout that’s wrapped around a wanton moan. the stretch is sensational and the burn evens out the euphoria. he feels you up so well. you can feel his cock rub up against your walls, reaching spots within you that have never been touched by anyone else before. you understand now why your boss is no play and all business. when kuroo needs to, he’s not afraid to get down and dirty just like right now.

“this cunt was made for me.” is what he purrs into your ear. it’s embarrassing how much that affects you. the mere idea of being his has you clenching around his huge cock. his free hand rubs at your back, grabbing at the supple flesh on your ass. you can feel his nails dig into you, the coldness from his rings slightly soothing the pain.

“this ass was made for me too.” and to further cement his claim, he delivers a particularly hard thrust at the same time he smacks at your cheeks. the movement makes you fly forward, papers and other (probably very important things) slide off the top of his desk, but you don’t have time to care. not when the man of your dreams is fucking you so good. you’ll worry about the crumpled up project approval papers later. 

“god, and that mouth.” he shifts to the side. the pressure on your head heightens while he pulls at your ends. your neck feels stiff and his thrust begin to shallow. his ring cladded fingers draw at your jaw, thumb playing with the entrance of your mouth. 

“this pretty little mouth.” his lips brush against your own. his breath fans across your face. he’s so close to kissing you in fact if you moved just an inch closer you would– a fat glob of spit cuts you off. the sudden action made you flinch at first but kuroo made it very clear you could tell him to stop at anytime. his saliva comes down from his long tongue and slots within your mouth perfectly. 

he clamps your jaw shut and you have no choice but to swallow him whole. “good girl, just like that.” he coaxes you while petting at your crown. when you finally open your mouth and all of him is gone, kuroo swears he could cum right then and there. 

“you’re so fucking sexy. holy shit.” his shallow thrust began to get more punctuated now. you can’t hear anything besides the slapping of skin-on-skin contact. you don’t hear kuroo’s phone ringing for the third time. you don’t hear the bustling street life just below tetsuro’s flamboyant row of glass windows. all you can focus on is the intense pleasure that pumps through your veins. it makes you see stars with every thrust, makes your legs shake with every murmur of pretty girl. the white hot coil within you is thinning. it’s about to snap, you can feel it.

“te– tetsuro, please?”

“please, what, princess?” his voice is strained. he’s close too. 

“please, can i come, sir?”

he can’t believe it. he must have died in the middle of the day and ended up in some kind of sex heaven with you as the starring role (not that he’s complaining). he has the a fantastic view of your ass bouncing, you swallow him down like the pretty slut you are, and you respond perfectly with every little touch, every little action. you’re perfect is what he concludes.

“fuck, yes.” his fingers dig into your sides. his grip is like a vice on your skin as he shoves himself deeper within you. “cum for me, princess.” 

you feel his dick twitch and seconds later he’s cummings with a shaky sigh. you’re finally able to let go, you come at around the same time, milking his cock for every last drop. kuroo takes it upon himself to fuck you through your orgasm, a little slower this time, but it still has you breaking down. 

he remembers the way you sauntered into his office, skirt a little too short and eyes practically begging for him. you must have known something was going to happen. there’s no way you just wear pretty pink lace to your everyday job. no, today was a special day for you and apparently for him too. when things finally get too much, kuroo tucks his softened cock back into his pants.

you’re hair is messy. it’s matted from all the sweat and tangled from all the times kuroo raked through your locks and pulled. your chest rises and falls quickly and your eyes are closed trying to concentrate. the blissful veil of sex is finally settling and yet you still look as gorgeous as ever. he’s left there staring at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him. like he wouldn’t mind waking up everyday to your face weather you’re smiling up at him or snoring up a storm. 

when you shift to hop of the desk is when he finally makes a move. he grabs onto your waist, trying his hardest to steady himself so you’re able to balance too. your feet hit the floor and your legs feel like they’re gonna give out at any moment. they wobble under your weight. you can’t help but laugh. it’s a sweet, melodious tone that’s a little scratchy from your... previous actions, but still, he thinks it fits.

“what’s gotten you so giggly?” he guides you to one of his plush office chairs. as you walk, your body remains flesh against his.

“i just–,” your hues lock onto kuroo’s dark ones. “i wouldn’t mind if we did this again, yanno?” 

he smiles down at you watching while you readjust your skirt back over your legs. you bend forward with you’re ass in the air. you must be doing it on purpose, he knows with the way you comically wiggle your hips. and he nods, “yes, i wouldn’t mind that either.”

[mysterioh]

The Ignorant Beauty and The Beast of New York - Ch. 7

PAIRING: MOB!STEVE ROGERS X READER

SYNOPSIS: Y/N is an exhausted bio major. Steve is danger with a capital DANGER. She thinks he’s a sarcastic prick with an impressive knowledge of art history. He thinks she’s cute even if she’s only running on one brain cell. All he wants is a single date, but she’s adamant upon denying.

Masterlist 

How to Keep Meeting Your Beloved Stalker

"I'm coming," Nat hollered from the kitchen, turning down the heat of her stove. She walked towards the door and opened it to find Steve standing, a sopping wet mess.  

His clothes were drenched from the rain. His hair a disheveled mess and face flushed as if he'd been crying. He had a bouquet of soggy red roses hanging in his hand with water dripping off the petals, making a puddle on her carpet.  

"Stevie, what the hell?" Nat asked. "Are you okay?" 

Without a word, Steve slammed into Nat almost knocking the wind out of her. His wet coat arms wrapped tightly around her and he sniffles in her shoulder. 

"She left, Nat," his voice dripping with pain. "Peggy left me in the rain," he choked out.  

 "Oh, Stevie," was all she could say as she rubbed his back, not even caring about getting wet. 

 "She told me that she'd never leave but she did,"  he said. "I loved her, Nat. I really loved her." 

 His words stung her heart and even the hardened black widow couldn't help but shed a tear. She had never seen him so broken. 

 He pulls away and digs his hand into his pocket. He takes out a velvet box and opens it to reveal a shining diamond ring. 

Her lips parted in shock. "Steve…" 

 "I was gonna ask her to marry me," he sniffled. "But she told me that she'd never marry a devil like me." 

 Nat's lips twisted into a scowl. Her hands cup his cold face. A sort of warm respite for him.  

 "You're not a devil, you hear me?" Nat stated. "And she's a damn fool for leaving you."

 She pulls him into another hug and it's quiet besides the slow humming of a steaming pot. With a slowly boiling anger within her, all she could think of was how much she'd love to beat the shit out of that bitch.

His eyes held a gaze more fearsome than a tiger.  A thin paper cigarette hung from his bottom lip, a small trail of smoke escaping from the corner of his mouth and dancing upwards towards the ceiling. The air around him was majestic like a king on a throne. But he was far from his kingdom. 

 "So," Steve started, getting comfortable in a leather tufted seat. "A little bird told me you guys have been sneaking behind my back," Steve stated, looking up at the two brothers in front of him. 

The tan-skinned brunette smiles at him puzzled, but the way he shifted in his office chair uncomfortably was enough to answer Steve's conjecture.  

"Don't know what you're talkin' about," Lucky shakes his head.  

Lucky Gambino. Age 32. Italian. Head of the Gambino Crime Family presiding over Staten Island. 

"C'mon Rogers," his younger brother Sunny drawled. "You think we'd be sneaking behind your back?" 

"I've got eyes everywhere, Sunny," Steve stated calmly, setting a sinister air to the room. "Hard for anything to pass by me." 

Sunny chuckles with his hands in his pockets and leaning against his brother's desk. The room was dimly lit despite it being well into the afternoon. Sunbeams filtered through the half-lidded blinds, acting as a sort of spotlight for the fumes that escaped their cigarettes. 

"Stevie, y' know us well," Lucky spoke with his hands. It's just an Italian thing. "We went to Saint Anselm's together. Played ball in that rundown field between Gino's Pizza. You remember those days?" 

Steve nods with a small smile. "Yeah, I do." 

"Our pop's worked with yours' for years. We've got a bond. You're like family, man," Sunny said. 

Steve smirked. Good thing he wasn't so sentimental when it came to the business. 

"Then what's this news about you and Hydra working together?" 

"Hydra?" Lucky guffawed. "You think we'd be working with those no-names?"Sunny laughed along. 

"We aren't the Brooklyn Mob, but we're sure as hell not some third-rate gang like Hydra. We're the Gambinos, we'd never stoop that low." 

Steve chuckled along. "Right," Steve said while getting up. "I guess there's nothing I need to worry about here." 

"Not a damn thing," Sunny assured. "We're on your side, big boss." 

Steve chortles as he turns to leave. He gives them a nod as he exits the room. 

"Have a good day, Mr. Rogers," the receptionist said with a smile as he walked by. 

"You too, Miss Hill," he grinned with the corners of his eyes and a wave of his hand. He pressed the button of the elevator and entered it, listening to something rustling behind him. 

He turns to see Maria getting up from her desk, her heels clicking as she walked towards the office. A gun complete with silencer resting snug between her fingers. 

"Maria," he called and she turned to look at him. 

"Don't make a mess," he gave her a half-smile. 

She snorts with a sly smirk as the doors of the elevator begin to close. 

"You know I never do." 

Nat plopped herself on top of Bucky's desk. 

Bucky smiles at her, slightly peeved by the way she carelessly sits on the manifest for the next delivery. 

"May I help you?" 

"In fact, you can," she replied devilishly. 

Bucky sits back in his chair as she hooks her leg over the other giving him a nice view of the outline of her salacious legs in a tight-fitting pencil skirt.  

If he was any other man he would've been drooling a river by now, but after years of working together, Nat was just one of the guys. Nothing she did ever fazed him. Not like she was trying to or anything. 

"How can I help you, Miss Romanoff?"  

She bites her lip and he can tell something was bothering. "I'm worried."

"About?"  

"About Steve," she said.  

"I second that," Sam piped up from the other side of the room. "He's been kinda out of it, lately." 

"It's because of the girl," Nat informed. 

Bucky groaned while sinking in his chair. "I know." 

"So what're we gonna do about it?" Sam asked. 

"I don't know," Bucky shrugged. "Just let him be. He'll get over it." 

"It's been a week," Nat pointed out.  

"And your point is?"  

"Steve's made thirteen horrible decisions in the past week and he went to see the Gambinos today and I know for a fucking fact that it didn't end well." She sighed, crossing her arms. "I'm just worried about him," she confessed. "I mean after Peggy he's never really been the same and this girl just made it worse."  

The two fell silent at the mention of Peggy. She was just one of those people that they didn't talk about, especially when Steve was around.  

"I know that you are," Bucky said. "We all are, but you know Steve. He doesn't want help until he asks for it." 

"We can't just sit here and ignore it!" Nat bent forwards and into him. He shrinks underneath her. "If he keeps this up, he's gonna die!"  

"Don't you think that's a bit dramatic," Sam stated. 

"Okay maybe not die but the direction he's going in it's only going to get worse," Nat said. "He still remembers her," Bucky's eyes shot up to look at her. "He still has that ring," she told them in a hushed voice. 

She looks down to her hands in her lap. Her emotions were not easily hidden. She could've been the toughest in the mob but Bucky knew she was a softie at heart. Her worry was evident in the crease of her lovely brows and the down-curve of her full lips. 

"Hey," Bucky called softly, placing his hand on top of hers. She looks up at him through red locks to find him smiling sweetly.  

"It's gonna be fine, okay?"  

"How do you know?" Nat question with a pout.  

"Cause this is Stevie we're talking about," Bucky said. "No matter how far he falls, he always gets back on top."  

One look into his steel-blue eyes, gleaming with a hidden affection, was all Nat needed to know that maybe everything really was going to be okay. 

He glided along the white floors of the museum. Walking past bundles of children led by their teachers and casual visitors like a specter. 

Steve had been to the Metropolitan more times than he could count on both hands. Art was his faithful lover and the galleries filled with masterpieces were his solace. But today, he didn't pay attention to the swirling brushstrokes of Van Gogh or the painstakingly pointillistic style of Seurat. 

Today was a day for his thoughts. A day to reflect on his past. How was it that just a thought could bring back long-buried emotions and stir what was settled? Maybe that was why his mother said to leave things be, to not go walking into the past so blindly.  

But what else is there to do when the way forward is the way back?  

He finds himself in front of the old painting where he first met her. It could have been over three hundred years but Marie's lively youthfulness was eternal. He observes her, the way she teased him with her coy smile, hiding her letter from his eyes while sitting at her desk. 

For some reason, he feels like she's taunting him.  

You fool, you overdid it. You fall too fast. 

"Yeah, I know," he huffed. 

He hears your dull voice in his ears. 

It's just an average painting. 

He chuckled. He didn't understand how you took the everlasting masterpieces that were lauded through time so lightly. How you didn't see them the way he did. 

Maybe, you were more different from him than he had initially thought. Maybe it was never meant to be. 

He clicks his tongue at himself. Meant to be? He hardly even knew you. 

"Steve, you fucking meatball," he groaned at himself, rubbing his face and gaining strange looks from others. "I hate my life," he moaned. 

He peeks through his fingers to find Marie still smiling at him as if she had nothing else to do. 

"Don't look at me like that," he pointed at her. "Yeah, I screwed up. I know I'm stupid. Don't rub it in my face."  

"Are you okay?" He turned to find an old lady giving him a judging smile. 

"Yeah," he chuckles sheepishly. "I-uh. I have to go. Sorry about that," he dashed. 

He groans with a sigh. What was it with women and torturing him? Inanimate or animate. They just loved to hate him. 

His shoulders drooped as he walked. He kept his eyes strictly on the ground to mask his embarrassment. So mortified by his own stupidity, he didn't dare to look anywhere but at the ground. A rather foolish thing to do when in public.  

Oddly enough, you walked down the same hall, tasked with yet another horrible project. With your nose stuck in a map, you walked without caution and right onto the wet floor. Your foot slipped and the next thing you knew, your arms were in the air and a small yelp escaped you.  

Steve caught you right before you fell. His big hands covered the small of your back with your arms wrapped around his neck.  

Heat rushes to your cheeks and so does his as he keeps you suspended in his arms. For a moment in time, the world stills and all that's left is you and him. 

His heartbeat was off its pacemaker, his breathing was heavy and deep as he looked into your eyes. They twinkled like the stars. His eyes traveled down towards plump red lips, parted slightly, inches away from his.

dammit dammit dammit 

Just like him, you're caught in a daze. Lost in the ocean blue of his eyes. You never knew a pair of eyes could be this soft. And just like that day in the cafe you're trapped under him again. There was just something about his gaze that you'd never find in another person. Only in him. Even if you wanted to let go, you just couldn't find it in yourself to part from him.  

Not too far off, Madame Boucher gazes at the two with her mischievous smile, still hiding the secret message in the letter from her lover.  

In all the world, there isn't another like you, or me for that matter. We are two souls who feel like once upon a reality we were soulmates, eternal flames. 

[sunbadgerplants]

How to Propagate Vining Houseplants, for Beginners:

So you’ve got an unruly plant on your hands. We’ve all been there. Despite your best intentions, the plant just isn’t filling out the pot the way you’d hoped, or maybe the pothos you keep on the shelf above your bed is 2 inches away from tickling your nose while you sleep. No need to worry, there’s an easy way to tame the beast and get a free plant out of it while you’re at it!

A few plants you can use this method with: Devil’s Ivy (Pothos), Philodendron, Wandering Jew (Tradescantia), Arrowhead Vine (Syngonium).

The plant I’m using as an example is my Purple Scimitar (Tripogandra Serrulata). It was started from a measly 2 cuttings because that’s all I had at the time. Consequently, it hasn’t filled in its pot very well. It has, however, grown some generously long vines that are ripe for propagation. So, we’re going to prune it so it’ll bush out a bit, and make a new pot that is stuffed full of cuttings that should fill in beautifully.

Get yourself a sharp, clean pair of pruners or scissors, and start by cutting the longest vines off. Keep in mind that what’s left of the mother plant will be stimulated to branch out. So try to cut where you want it to start branching.

Once you’ve got your vines detached, start trimming each vine into smaller cuttings.

The bare minimum length I use is two or three nodes per cutting (unless you really know what you’re doing, in which case, do a single node. Go crazy, you funky little gardener!). The nodes are where the new roots and shoots will emerge, so I like to have at least one node beneath the soil for roots, and another node (with a leaf attached for continued photosynthesis) for new branches to sprout from. Your cuttings can be longer, but I like to get the most out of what I have, so I tend to go short so I can have a higher quantity of cuttings.

(note: I measure cuttings like this in nodes, rather than in inches, because the number of nodes is important. In vining species like this, the length of internodes--a.k.a. the space between nodes--will vary greatly depending on how much light the plant you’re using is kept in, where on the plant you’re cutting, and the species you’re working with!)

I tend to make cuts .5″-1″ above/below a node (see picture above). One long branch like the ones I’m working with can yield 3 or 4 cuttings.

 Eventually you’ll end up with something like this:

With two-nodal cuttings, I always leave the top node with a leaf, and I strip the bottom node bare. If they’re longer, you can also leave multiple leaves on the cutting (like if you’ve got a growing tip), or strip more than one node of its leaves--but always leave at least one leaf intact for photosynthesis.

(Again.....it’s technically possible to shove a leafless cutting into dirt and have it live, but leaving a leaf just helps it grow a lot faster and stronger from the beginning because it’s got more energy!)

Here’s a closeup:

When you’ve got your cuttings prepared, go ahead and stick them in some pre-moistened potting mix. You don’t need anything fancy. General commercial potting medium is fine, as they tend to contain no actual soil (mostly peat + vermiculite) and are sterile, which is good! Because you don’t want your babies getting sick from bacteria, fungus and other soil nasties.

The medium just needs to be loose (in other words, don’t pat it down/compact it!), and drain well. You want the cuttings to have decent access to oxygen down there, as it helps the rooting process. I tend to fill the pot with potting mix until it’s slightly overflowing/mounded and thoroughly water it in, allowing water + gravity to settle it gently.

note: If your potting medium doesn’t have any perlite, consider adding some for added protection against compaction + added aeration!

The nodes on the cuttings are where the roots will grow out of, so you need to have at least one node below the soil line. If you have two leafless nodes, you can position the second node at/just below the soil line.

You don’t need to dip these in any fancy hormones. Like I said, these buggers already have roots just begging for somewhere to grow into. Check it out:

Every single node will grow these proto-roots, even if you don’t see them. If you stick ‘em in dirt, they will grow.

Arrange them any way you’d like. I like to bunch them towards the middle of the pot rather than around the edges. From my experience the pot fills in better that way:

Aaaaaand you’re done! Here’s what’s left of the mother plant (left) which will branch out eventually and become bushier. The pot with the cuttings is on the right:

Put your new leafy babies in a place that gets bright, indirect light and keep them well watered (avoid south-facing windows though--they’re a bit too intense. If in a west-facing window, just check for watering frequently). This doesn’t mean constantly soaked, because you don’t want them to rot--and don’t let them sit in a dish of water. Just keep in mind that in the beginning, they have no developed roots to take up water with, so they’ll need a steady supply of moisture. But there’s a difference between wet enough, and sopping wet.

They’ll probably look wilted for the first few days. But don’t panic. If you take care of them, they will perk back up.

It will be a few weeks before the plants root out. Try to resist pulling out the cuttings to check on them because you can damage the new roots. You just gotta have faith that they’re growing, and you’ll see proof when the cuttings start to flush out.

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc III: The Blood Curse of Tako Shak (4)

Chapter 4: A Red, Gold , and Green Fate Worse than Death

           I was barely twenty feet out the door when hunger struck me something fierce. It’d been hours since my last shoofly pie and I needed something fast. But as luck would have it, a hop, skip and jump away was some kind of souvenir shop advertising hex signs. Now, I might not know too much about the Amish, but I do know that where there’s hex signs, there’s usually some kind of fancy delicacy nearby. And the Amish were the types of folks always willing to give something out to a needy soul (which I was). With all the strength I could muster, I shoved the door open, a little bell announcing my arrival.

           Everywhere I looked, there were antiques as far as my ten year old eyes could see. An entire stand was dedicated to toy cars, while a glass case held nothing but owls for some reason. In the back, there was a collection of books that my Grandma probably been forced to write book reports on. Paddle ball sets, wooden glider planes, slinkies, if it was a toy that existed, they had it! There was even a case of Shrinky-Dinks. SHRINKY-DINKS! But what really got me was the ten foot high mason jar right next to the register, surrounded by packages of sponge and rubber snakes and lizards. I could see the faintest inkling of something in the jar, but the water was a bit too cloudy for me to make heads of tails of it proper. But more important...

I peeled my eyes. It was time for all those late night ‘Where’s Waldo?’ sessions to pay off. (And Mr. Cuthbert, if you’re reading this, I don’t care how many times you turn down my book reports. Where’s Waldo is great literature, and I will not let your prickly butt let it fade into obscurity!). 

And boy did they! In the back corner of the store, right in front of a collection of hex signs, were racks upon racks of snack foods, most of which I actually recognized. I was just about to go for them when giant, Earth-shattering footsteps came from the back, so loud I thought it might be a T-Rex. Considering the age of the stuff around me, that wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch. But what came out was something pretty close: a fifteen foot tall bearded dude wearing a black vest over a red shirt. 

“Greetings, friend, my name is Amos, and welcome to the Pennsylvania Dutch Gift Haus!”

“You’re not a dinosaur.” I said,letting fly the first thing that came to mind.

The Amish Dude got a good laugh at this. “Oh, I get that a lot, believe me! But tell me, young one, is there anything that interests you?”

I have to give credit to this Amos guy. He didn’t beat around the bush. And I was at a point where a bag of prunes was making me salivate. 

In the end, though, it came down to one thing: I had to decide between hunger and eating something with vitamins in it. I hesitated a moment, but in the end, hunger won out. 

“You know, child.” He said, “You remind me a lot of myself when I was your age. You’ve traveled a long way, yet somehow you’re lost. I was like that too, child, until I found- Hey! What are you doing with those apple rings?!”

As a matter of fact, I’d been in the middle of swallowing the package whole, like the starving half-dinosaur I was. Sucked that I couldn’t really taste the sweetness, being part dinosaur and all, but it still did the trick. Of course, halfway through the bag, I came to the sudden realization that maybe the Amish weren’t the ones that just handed out food to the needy. 

“Child,” he pointed a finger at me, speaking in that self-righteous voice my local pastor used whenever he caught me playing my GameBoy during a sermon. “Thou hath pilfered the forbidden dried fruits of Bucks County! Do you not realize what vile act of sin thou hast performed?!”

Now, this is when I should have repented. Maybe worked for Amos a little back to get his good graces. Emphasis on should have. Because the way Amos said that line, ‘forbidden fruit’ I figured there was no going back, and long story short, I acted accordingly.

“Yeah! And it sucks! You know why? Because you didn’t add any artificial colors or flavorings!” 

For emphasis, I crammed the opened bag back onto the rack before making a beeline for the exit.

Have you ever seen an angry amishman before? If not, consider yourself lucky. Wrinkles crease their face so bad it practically turns to stone. It turns such a dark shade of purple it’s practically black, the sweat from the pores enough to run the Hoover dam for a year, red eyes that… you get the idea. Shrunk just about two feet from looking at him.

Slowly, he clenched one giant hand into a head sized fist.

“Nice try,” I cried, calling his bluff. “Last I heard, Amish are pacifists.”

“That which you say may be true, wretched child of Sodom, but it will not be my paci-fists which slay you!”

With a single, massive puch, he shattered the mason jar next to the register, the contents spilling onto the tiled floor. And amidst all the cloudy, soapy water was something that made my jaw drop. 

           Remember those old grow sponge animals? The kind you’d put in water the whole week to see if it would actually grow to the 500% larger size the package said it would, but never did? Well, flopping on the floor was a red, yellow, and green monstrosity so large it was nearly the length of the store stretched out, so bloated with water its’ skin was cracking. I would say it was a lizard, this was no ordinary reptile. No, this thing looked like it had crawled straight out of an Australian petting Zoo. And with a blink of a slimy, wet eye, I realized the thing had its sights on me. 

With sopping limbs, the giant sponge lizard crawled over to its’ master, kneeling beside him like an old family pet.

“For fifty years I’ve grown this little fella. I never thought that a child of all the Lord’s creatures might be the one deserving his wrath!” he pointed a single, sausage thick index finger in my direction. “Come, O Karma Chameleon, and show this foolish devil the error of his ways!”

I pulled out my tommy gun, only to find it was completely out of bullets. Panicking, I whipped around to the wall covered in hex signs. I picked up one the label claimed represented Irish pride, expecting an improvised projectile that would keep me alive, if only for a little longer. What I got was a scalding sensation and a burned hand.

“Foolish child. Can you not see that the sin in your heart has made you unworthy of the most humble folk art in the universe?! Go, Karma Chameleon, and finish this sodomite!”

Just like that, the fight was over before it even began.

I found myself stuck in the slightly transparent belly of the beast, struggling to get out. The Chameleon, its’ work done, crawled out the door and into the world. Before we left, t I saw the blurry figure of Amos bring out another giant mason jar filled with water, plopping a little sponge lizard inside. 

“And stay out!” he hollered as the Karma Chameleon took me away.

[ars-simia-animus]

What I Can Afford is Yours

Chapter 3: “To Find Each Other and Bond”

Summary: Is it foolish to try to give much when you own so little?

Peter is discouraged and exhausted in his attempts to create something to give Mr. Stark for Christmas. Meanwhile, Tony remembers everything that drew him to Peter in the first place.

Trigger warning for this chapter: mild domestic violence (common for the time period); bigoted language against Jewish people

Read the chapter after the break.......

Rounding on three o’clock that morning, Peter’s makeshift kiln blew the iron pot five feet in the air and launched it into the brick of the adjoining building with a terrible peal that woke the neighbors and the Jamesons.

Peter had fanned the little fire, huddled in the sharply cold air, ever since he’d lit it, to drive the updraft of heat into the kiln. Now and then he startled awake after dozing, stung by frigid mist or the responsibility of his task; but, the kiln was reaching its intended temperature by the hour, as best he could judge. He saw the shaky plume of smoke leaving the flue and assumed the construction was a success.

However, as the heat built up so did an excess of fumes and the pressure was too much. The iron-pot-turned-missile blazed a moment when it hit the alley stones, the residual cooking oil alight in its bowl. “What the devil ?” Peter heard his master roar from above his head. Jameson leaned from the bedroom window, having been roused by the clangor of iron on brick.

“Jesus Christ, Parker! If I had known you were going to burn down the goddamn neighborhood …” Mr. Jameson didn’t finish the sentiment but brought down his birch switch across Peter’s shoulders.

Peter sat humbly on his stool before the pottery wheel, hands curled on his knees, docilely accepting the chastisement. He was too forlorn to be curious what his master meant or if he meant anything, which was very unlikely. He swallowed the sensations of pain and sorrow lumping in his throat. His clay figurine — his only present for Mr. and Mrs. Stark, which he’d endured so much to create — was still outside in the wrecked kiln he’d made. It may have also been destroyed when Mr. Jameson had trampled his construction.

“And at this ungodly hour! How am I supposed to get back to sleep?” Mr. Jameson paced behind him. Peter glanced at the clock over the workshop fireplace. In four hours he was due to start work. “You’re distracted all day by that… by that smug ass, Stark, and you waste my time and resources making foolish things— hummingbird whatsit my eye!”

Peter muttered as politely as he could: “Mr. Stark bought my hummingbird feeder— for a pretty price, I’m sure. And you did say if I earned you money, I could ‘follow my fancy.’”

Jameson bellowed, deafly: “Now you’re up all night menacing the neighborhood! Humiliating me… Even committing arson outside my home!”

“It was not my intention—“

“Don’t talk back to me, boy!” Mr. Jameson stopped pacing and planted his feet. Peter’s heart shuddered a little at the tone. Mr. Jameson often yelled— Peter knew he was mostly a lot wind and less destruction — but at the moment, Peter was exhausted, and still shivering from the chill, and much too sad to defend himself. “You’re not half so special as you think... Just because you’re the pet of some popinjay snob.”

Peter felt a rush in his ears as his temper stirred. Although he kept his head bowed, his jaw tightened, and his voice was low like a crouching beast. “Mr. Stark has been very kind to me and you should not badmouth him.”

However, Mr. Jameson had enjoyed the taste of the insult. He seemed fully awake now and invigorated. “That pompous milksop — he acts as though this shop is his.”

“He has nearly singly funded your business the past two years.” Peter’s voice grew taut. “And he’s been a faithful customer; what right do you have—?”

“I’ll not have some Jewboy brat question my rights.” Mr. Jameson snarled. “You’re here by my generosity, mind—“

“Mr. Stark’s generosity buys your bread and you spit on his name only because you envy his status—“

This earned him another harsh strike and he closed his eyes. Then he composed himself. 

“I’m warning you, Pete!” Came Mr. Jameson’s voice.

Peter did stop then. Mr. Jameson held his means of living in his hand. It was not only the birch rod that threatened him. Without this apprenticeship, how could he provide his share to their household? How could May be proud of him as a man? Also, how could he practice the art that he loved, the one of which Tony claimed he would become a master? How else could he work with the expensive clays and glazes every day? Peter was testing Mr. Jameson too much. He gritted his teeth and willed his angry tears to hide.

Mr. Jameson was scarlet from his collarbone to his ears. He used the rod to emphasize his words, as if conducting an orchestra. “You’d better watch your mouth. Implying that I’m beholden to Stark…” His fingers gripped his jaw to stifle the rage. Peter glared at the ground. He wished Mr. Jameson would hurry up and go. “What am I envying, hmm? What? Unearned wealth and that strange, invisible wife—“

Peter stood from the stool and faced down his master. “Mrs. Stark is not strange!” He cried firmly. “She is gentle and brilliant and is always so busy yet finds time to contribute to the wellbeing of others. If she does not come to town it’s likely because she can’t stand the company of ignorant people.”

“What does a worthless sneak like you know? You mean to tell me you’ve met Mrs. Stark?” Jameson challenged.

A minute smirk leapt across Peter’s lips before he jibed: “Oh, you mean Pepper?”

The rod flew across Peter’s jaw. He reeled and was aware of a split in his bottom lip. Curling up on his stool again, he smoldered darkly in himself, but remained decidedly subdued.

“Goddamn it, Parker,” Mr. Jameson said with a quick look as though he might feel badly for striking the boy across the face. “Do you think I enjoy beating you? I try to teach you and you just don’t learn!” He strode across the floor, ready to exit the workshop. “Consider your wages for today mine as payment for your foolishness.”

The door slammed. Peter sighed from his place on the stool. He licked his lip before gingerly wiping the blood across the back of his fist. “What have you taught me?” He scoffed and rushed outside.

The kiln he’d made was wrecked, stomped under Mr. Jameson’s boots in the commotion that followed the explosion. The neighbors had demanded explanations from Mr. Jameson, who was standing in the alleyway with his coat over his old-fashioned nightgown. Babies were screaming within the next house and soon the perturbation had travelled down the block. Peter had been ordered inside before he could explain himself let alone beg to be allowed to finish the firing.

Peter crept to the remains and dug with his furnace tongs. Unearthing his little figurine, he returned to the workshop to inspect the damage. He knew before he saw it in the light that there was no hope to save it. Even if it had sintered, it was useless to think that the ceramic body had not fractured in the botched cooling process. Peter confirmed this when he set the little lovebird on the hearth of the workshop fireplace. Miserably, he huddled on the floor next to it and wept until he succumbed to sleep.

Tony met the genius apprentice two years ago, sitting out in the sunshine to do his work, which he was not permitted to do. J. Jonah Jameson’s Ceramics had a distinct disparity between the quality of its pieces. Most were uninspired even though they bore no technical flaws. Others, however, were passionately conceived, albeit not without weaknesses.

Tony had bought simple household items from Jameson before, choosing to have his ornamental china imported, and he doubted that the man had suddenly taken an artistic inclination. He would certainly never have hidden any ability of his that might be profitable. Tony’s passing curiosity was redoubled when he spotted a very small youth, sopping wet with clay slip, sitting out behind the shop on a crate, carving a design on a little amphora vase.

Tony stepped up to him and when the boy’s eyes tilted to meet him, he raised a gorgeously fired porcelain door knob handle, and asked: “ You made this, didn’t you?”

The eyes, like little round mirrors, went wide. “I— well— is it satisfactory to you, sir?”

“I bought it didn’t I?” Tony replied but smiled and the boy ducked into his shoulders. “It has fine crystallization.”

As if a switch were thrown, the kid began to ramble. “I experimented much when I mixed my glaze components, sir. I used plenty of frit and zinc oxide and not much aluminum. I had wanted to make a peach bloom glaze which I read about in a book, but the book didn’t have any instructions, just a description, and Mr. Jameson couldn’t tell me, either. But, when I saw the crystal growth on my test glaze, I thought it looked just like lace!” He paused, breathless, with a look of ecstasy.

Then he added: “I don’t mean to boast, sir; I was just pleased.”

“Looks as though your experiments paid off. The crystals are fully rounded, so you must have held them at the right temperature for a long while.” Tony mused.

“Yes, sir. I gave it a long soaking time. I also was slow to cool down. I was so very careful with my firing schedule, sir. I made that door knob set there and my master put it up for sale. I’m happy you’re satisfied with it!”

Tony hummed, looking at the boy. He hadn’t expected such a thorough answer. He clicked his tongue and asked, “What’s your name, kid?”

For a moment he didn’t think the boy would answer, then: “I’m Mr. Jameson’s apprentice.”

“But you had a name before that, I assume. They still give those to children, right?” Tony ribbed. “Or are we going straight to occupational titles?”

“Peter.” He answered shyly. “Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker. I’d like fourteen sets more of these, just like this one.” Tony again held up the doorknob handle. “Would you be able to manage that?”

Peter stared at the doorknob handle and up at Tony and back. He did this several times while his eyes grew wet. Tony began to panic, but Peter said, “Exactly like it, sir?”

“Well, not,” Tony said, “precisely, impossibly so. Just enough to match.”

To his horror the kid continued to well up in distress. “I — I‘m sorry, sir, I was experimenting greatly with the glaze composition and I think it was quite an accident that it turned out— ”

Peter looked as if he expected to be arrested for the confession. Tony hid his amusement and deflected. “It may have been an accident for you, but zinc oxide and silicon oxide molecules always bond at the right temperature. If the molecules can move around enough to find each other, they’ll arrange in strings around a zinc nucleus. Your very careful firing schedule is proof that you have a good understanding from which to work.”

“But, you see,” Peter said in a mousy voice, “I didn’t write down my measurements or all the components I used…”

“Well, that was silly.” Tony said. He was shocked when the boy flinched and began to redden across his eyes. Quickly, Tony dismissed the tears. “Good grief! It’s nothing to cry about.” He awkwardly put a hand on the kid’s head, if for no other reason, to hide from his crying face. When the boy’s emotions subsided, he sighed. “Tender-hearted, aren’t you? I just mean, always keep notes on your experiments. Okay?”

Peter nodded. “I will. Earlier you said zinc and silicon oxide make macro-crystals. I know I used lots of silica. Tell me more about molecules bonding and maybe I can figure out what I did, sir. Working backwards.”

Tony laughed a little at that. He pulled up another crate to sit on. Peter jumped up and laid a handkerchief across it for him. Tony began to explain about heat work and chemical compounds as they seemed to relate to Peter’s crystalline glaze.

Peter listened intently; it was evident on every feature. When Tony finished, Peter asked, “Do you know ceramics, sir?” There was a tint of worship to his words.

“No,” said Tony with a little laugh. “But I know a deal about material sciences. I'm a sort of mechanic.”

Peter laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Peter said quickly. Then, he shrugged. “It’s only that I know who you are and I think ‘mechanic’ is a funny way to describe yourself.”

“Oh, do you know me?” Tony’s mouth quirked in amusement and his brows opened.

Hearing people declare who he was was an almost daily experience for Tony. If they were of an older generation, they called him “Howard Stark’s son.” If they were in his own age group, they talked about his wealth as heir of Stark Industries. And, if they were younger, they may mention his inventions in addition to his inheritance. He had no idea what a child would say, but instead of anything he might have predicted, Peter said: “You’re Tony Stark. After you visited the Blessed Virgin Orphanage, they started giving us milk every day and meat for dinner. Everyone got a new blanket, too.”

A cloud of energy seemed caught in Tony’s face. He looked at Peter and muttered something like “is that right?” He readjusted his shoulders as though physically shaking off the sensation.

Peter gasped a little, excitedly, and said, “Yes, though, I was only there a couple of weeks while my uncle and aunt were located. They still lived in Philadelphia, you see. But, my experience after you came was much better and I’m sure it made a great difference for the boys who were there longer.”

Tony smiled a little. He sniffed and changed the subject. “You’re articulate for your age.”

This caused another blush which entertained Tony. Peter said, “I come from an educated family, though it may not look it. My parents were both scientists before coming to America. My father was a botanical chemist and my mother was an entomologist.”

“An entomologist, now? And a botanical chemist... My wife has quite an interest in both those fields of study. Well, more so birds than bugs, I guess.” Tony said thoughtfully.

“That would be ornithology.”

“Now you’re showing off.” Tony said and Peter giggled. The sound was a great relief to Tony. He decided to avoid any further conversation about the boy’s parents, not confident how prepared he would be for the potential topics or emotions.

“I still have a few drawings of my parents’. I copy them on my pottery.” Peter humbly indicated the beetle design carved on the vase and Tony had to crane to see it, the boy was too shy to show it properly. But he noticed the accuracy of the form. It was evident that he'd copied from a scientific drawing. Even though Peter’s hand was inexperienced, Tony recognized his talent. “Mr. Jameson said if I make him money, I can keep making pieces of my own design.“

“Hmm.” Tony said. “And what are your plans for this one?“

Peter’s eyes rivaled the sunlight. He gushed about all the designs he would carve in the leather hard body from Maltese everlasting to moon orchids to bee-flies, and then he listed the colorants he would add to the glazes to make every carved figure its own color. Over that he would attempt another transparent macro-crystalline glaze “using the knowledge you just taught me, sir!”

When Tony left, he shook Peter’s hand and said he would be back for his fourteen additional sets. Pepper asked him about his day that evening and he just furrowed his brows for a long time. “I had a conversation on chemistry in a Brooklyn back alley with a boy whose voice had not dropped yet.”

Pepper didn’t skip a beat. She replied, “I’m relieved to hear you were productive.”

Tony returned the next month to see Peter. He had no interest in going into the shop, so simply entered through the workshop door. Peter saw him and instantly began chatting about molecular bonding. He ran and got three more sets of doorknob handles like the one Tony bought that he had successfully created. “Nice work, kid.” Tony praised. Peter beamed and promised to keep trying until he’d made eleven more to match.

The second time Tony returned after meeting Peter, he found the boy standing on tiptoe on the stool and pushing his entire arm into a vase he was throwing. Tony rushed over as Peter teetered on the stool. He caught him firmly around his middle, exclaiming, “What are you thinking?”

Peter thanked Tony for catching him, his voice thick with concentration. His little hands were still manipulating the clay. “Could you keep holding me up, please, Mr. Stark?”

Tony held him, scowling, but briefly. “That’s as tall as you are.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but Peter admitted: “I wanted to see how tall a vase I could throw.”

As soon as he was on the ground, Peter ran and retrieved six more doorknob handle sets. He apologized for not having the other five ready to sell yet. Tony nodded but was glad to have a reason to return again. He was captivated now.

[wolf-with-no-pelt]

Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone

Mood music.

It'd never really been the sound. The sight. Or even the noise. It was the fuckin' smell. Death had a scent. Copper and iron. Hot, then cold. Shit. Bile. And something inherently missing. Maybe if he was more poetic or some bullshit, he'd be able to name it. But all he had was some kinda lack that stung and burned, and made his stomach upheave.

That was why he liked being out and above, away from the reek. But Sean and Connor had gotten that duty and were holed up somewhere above the prison safe and out of sight where they wouldn't be found so they could watch and be sure shit didn’t hit the fan. Probably all sorts of fuckin' cozy too, with dinner and being in the heat away from the goddamn rain. 

When was the last time they'd had a dry day? He was pretty sure it’d been raining since Alannah had come home tattered and broken, big blue eyes glassy with disbelief and detachment. All that light gone.

It was like the heavens were weeping for what had happened. 

He silently scrubbed his worn fingers over Celty's head, the Shepard sitting in the passenger seat of his beat up truck. For a split second, he glanced at the dog who panted quietly in the humid damp, then looked back up to the dim light of the prison's release doors. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, or the anger would get the best of him before he was ready to let that devil free.

All this fucking cold and dampness made his knee ache, stabbed into his bones. He shoulda brought another dose of meds, but he hadn't thought he'd be outside so damn long.

He was pretty sure it'd been close to an hour when the doors finally fucking opened.

Squinting through the downpour, he finally clocked Albie as he came through the doors, out of his uniform. Shunting the truck door open, Riley swung out onto the pavement to hustle through the rain, feeling grim. His knit cap quickly became sopping wet, and he could feel each cold trail of water slinking past the collar of his shirt and down his spine as though some portent, but he gave up on trying to wipe it away. 

What a shit fucking day. Then’d all been shit since Alannah.

"Albie! Lookin' like ye los' some o'tha' weigh', ye fa' bastard," Riley called out as he jogged up, stepping under the protection of the awning as he kept his head tipped down under the brim of his knit hat.

He only had a precious few seconds where the copper was in the camera's blind spot, and as Albie looked up to see who was talking to him, his inquisitive gaze was met with a meaty fist. Riley felt the crunch and snap of the man's nose giving out, blood and snot pouring over his quivering mouth while both hands flew up to cup his face instinctively. He stepped in close and gut punched the cop. The fat fucks were hard to tell sometimes if shit connected beneath all that blubber, but Albie hunched inward as though he'd been stabbed with a mighty wheeze that echoed in the soft patter of rain.

Half hanging on the bruiser's arm, he struggled to gain air and probably yell for help, but Riley swung around to sling a heavy arm over the stout fellow's shoulders and clamp a hand over his mouth before he could get a sound out. Like they were old drinking buddies about to hit the bar, Riley hoisted the man up to his feet and guided him along at a quick shuffle so that he could stuff him into his truck and slam the door shut.

Celty had hopped to the backseat, but kept her maw poked between the two of them, teeth bared in a savage but silent snarl in a warning as Riley slung himself in and peeled out of the parking lot. Tearing off the hat as he drove, he scraped his hand through his hair and flicked the wipers on, glancing at Albie from the corner of his eye as the man’s head lolled loosely. Musta hit harder than he'd thought.

Before he'd even registered that they were really driving, he was already half carrying the reeling man through the door of the humble base of operations they'd taken over, blessedly out of the rain. He gave a sharp whistle for Celty to follow, meeting with a couple of men who took Albie off his hands.

"Good on ye," one of them spoke, clamping a hand on his shoulder in a quick bulldog's grip, then they disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

"Fucker's gonna pay, ay ma'e?" Riley didn't recognize the second man, but that wasn't all that odd.

"Jus' call me when shite's settled, yeah?"

Hellfire had a way of digging in deep inside of him, burning like a hungry wildfire on the highlands that the rains couldn't stop. He had been angry before, but it had been a razor sharp focus, like a ravenous beast stalking his meal for the evening. But now it promised a volcanic eruption, beat knuckles tangling white as he clenched his fists.

When he lashed out, it was right at Albie's face again. He wasn't sure when he'd gotten there, but fuck all if it didn't feel good. Curses tumbled out of him like shards of glass, each punctuated with a blow rained down on Albie.

"Who the feck told ye tha' ye could pu' yer 'ands on 'er?!"

Blood popped and spat from Albie's mouth, teeth stained pink. One was missing that hadn't been before. Alannah would like that tidbit. It might even bring a bit of light back to her eyes. They were so dull now, just a grey sky instead of the unbound blue.

Riley heard a faint crack through the haze of bloodlust -- and he woke with a start.

The scent of blood was still in his nose, and something missing. Something intrinsic.

He rolled, groping wildly in the black for the small wastebin near the bed as he vomited into it. The springs creaked under his weight, mingling in with the rush of his heart in his ears as the reek of whiskey and bile scraped out the scent of death. It wasn't much better, but it at least it meant his stupid ass was still alive. Hazy eyes roamed to the clock when he was finally done, neon red numbers slurred across his vision.

4:06 AM.

Still drunk, but not drunk enough. His knee burned and his hands felt on fire. Nudging the tiny lamp on at his bedside table, he screwed his eyes closed, pinprick sight examining the mottled bruising of his hands around the bandages still wrapped tight. They'd swell when he took them off.

Feckin' eejit.

He scraped himself outta the bed like gum off a shoe, the rattle of an orange pill bottle following him as he limped to the kitchen. Snagging a beer out of the fridge, he pried the cap off his pills to shake a couple into his palm, then his mouth where he washed down the bitter bite of them with the bitterness of ale instead. He grabbed a big bowl too, dumped ice into it and a bag, then limped out to his little balcony that overlooked the parking lot of his apartment in Westend. 

He dumped himself into the sagging lawnchair and propped his leg up on the wicker table so he could set the bag of ice on his knee. Taking another hefty swig of beer, an eye closed against the dull pound of his head as his thoughts raced, he started snipping off the bandages with the scissors that had been left out since the last time so he could dip his bruised knuckles into the ice.

If he squinted just right, the vivid blue of his bruises looked just like her eyes.

[mslanna]

A Mortifying Ordeal

Raphael manages to get to earth after the Nether Brain exploded and killed Tav. Or so it seems. Because Tav is looking alive and eager at this very strange event where many people dress up as people he knows and even himself. Tav doesn't remember anything though. Something Raphael plans to amend. But is it really Tav without memories or just a lookalike that played the game too often? Time to find out. Started from This Prompt the idea evolved into something longer. Mix between fangirl's dream of being pursued by a romantically determined Raphael and the angst of not being who he want/loves/needs.

A Mortifying Ordeal Chapter 2 now up on AO3

Chapter 1 (formerly I've Known You Only Now)

Lemme tell you that while there's lotsa things you get used to on conventions because we're all off our rockers, especially the cosplayers and I must know because I just stripped out of my Tav cosplay. Anyway, I thought I lucked out when an extremely accurately looking Raphael cosplayer started to follow me around and actually kinda wooed my in the same fashion that sopping wet beast of a devil would in-game.

It's not something you expect but it is definitely appreciated. I didn't put on the easy-access outfit by accident, you know. There's a lot you can be prepared for at cons and damned if I wasn't going to make the most of it. Dude looks like a complete buffet.

What one is not prepared for ever, though, is the dude just, like snapping into devil from. Like, are you serious? But there he stands, wings and all, and me sitting on the bed which puts my head in a very unfortunate place.

Because the fuck? Fuck is going on? And also is fuck still on the table? Which is the least of my problems right now, but still very much on my mind. My jaw is on the floor so it's not as if we couldn't just take it from here. I shake my head because as much as I wanna see them devil cock ridges something is not right here.

"Raphael?" I quack, as if I haven't called him that the whole time. It hits different now, what with the smell of cherries trying to drown out the sulphur. I gag a little. In reality sulphur is not very sexy.

He looks down and man those eyes do you in. Black hole indeed. Pull you straight in and spaghetti your every thought.

"Yes, very observant." The word roll from his lips like velvet gravel.

Not gonna lie it is observant. I met no fewer than five Raphaels today and I don't think any of them would've pulled this stunt. Could've. I shut my mouth and try to stop staring at him. Guy saw my phone gallery. Guy knows I think about sucking him off six times from Tuesday. The fact that he's still standing here is a miracle.

And I don't know what to do. There is no script for this. I can hardly squeak 'sex?' up at him, or can I? I wish he'd stop looking at me as if I hold the answers to his universe. I know nothing. I am more out of my depth than a lugworm in the Mariana Trench.

"Cat got your tongue?" He takes my chin with one hand and damn, he is several degrees hotter than human. In any respect, mind you. I nod into his hand which is kinda nice. He has big hands. He is – well big. Tall. Huge. I swallow. Anyway.

"I don't know what to say," I get out. "Or do."

"What did you intend to do before I changed?"

I bite my lip for honesty. It always hurts in the end so I might just start out in pain. Won't last as long then. I smile, or do my best approximation. Nothing but the truth. Let it end in flames early.

"Dinner," I shrug. "Drinks. Sex."

He doesn't leave. Doesn't laugh. Good signs so far. But he leans back and looks down his impeccable nose at me with a slight scrunch. "Communicating more clearly than ever, I see."

It's one thing peeps like me are supposedly good at. Clear cut information instead of dancing around the subject. Damn, I wanna dance around him all night long. If my stomach wasn't a-rumbling, I'd just have skipped the first two step in the evening's plans.

I rise carefully and manage not to bury my snout right into his crotch and forgo dinner after all. "So, you're still game?"

"I am still here, am I not?"

Not quite an answer but I'll take it. "No offence because your devil form is quite lovely, erm gorgeous, well, anyway, I like it a lot, but you cannot leave the room like that. I don't think."

"Whatever happened in here," he taps a finger against my temple and boy do I swallow because claws, "since you left Faerûn. Your eloquence has certainly suffered."

Should I tell him that it's mostly his vicinity causing this problem? Maybe later. There's such a thing as too much truth. He likes them spicy but nowhere in the game does it say he likes them stupid. Which may just break my back in this. Ah well. Where was I? Apart from staring at him.

"Maybe it'll get better," I suggest. "I'm not reacting well to new things." Unexpected things. Devils turning up on my doorstep and turning out to be actually a devil. And not running from my horny person. I hold out my hand.

He transforms back into his human form in a short burst of hellfire. It licks over my outstretched hand without burning which is a decidedly strange sensation.

"Better?"

"Less suspicious in this world." I'm glad I don't have to decide. Both forms have their appeal, all three have but I'm not sure when a wise moment is to disclose I am also an unapologetic monster fucker.

"Then let us proceed." His smile is scorching. So much charisma, the sheer weight of persuasion. I am weak. Doesn't help he takes my hand because that is also so hot and his skin is so soft and my mind is already in full swing putting those deft digits absolutely everywhere.

"One last thing." My fingers curl around his tightly, just in case he's gonna run now. I don't want him to, but well. "What do you even want with me?" I want to know. "What is your plan?"

"My – agenda is, of course, to rekindle your memories."

Oh. No. Frilly fuck with fangs. He thinks I'm Tav!Tav, like, the real thing. Oh dear. Oh no. Wow. Like, never. I was so very far from the real thing, like so far. I couldn't handle a weapon, not even walk for a day and saving a whole city? Unlikely. Impossible.

"I am – doubtful?" He completely ignores my worries and takes my elbow.

"Understandably so." He guides me towards the door. "Give it time. Give me time."

Hells, I'm done for. He can get all the time I have left. The timbre in his vowels is enough to get me on my knees. Question is if he has the patience to actually spend time with me. How long until the lack of serious Tav memories turns out to be my natural state? Not sure I wanna be around for that realisation.

But – that is for another time. Dinner is waiting and the view is going to be utterly amazing. I sigh and lean against his shoulder. Raphael lets out a small huff but it's appreciation, I'm sure of that. Dude didn't hunt me down all day to play hard to get now. I hope.

[theodoreharrison0427]

A Premonition - Prologue

The warm summer air blew through the crackling fire, blowing ashes high into the sky. They fell to their feet and landed in the water, disintegrating upon contact. Elsie wore a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt, a wolf and dream catcher print denim button up shirt was draped around her shoulders. Sedona AZ was written in blue thread above the left chest pocket. A crumpled pack of cigarettes stuck out of the top. Mother Nature was preparing to change the weather, greeting the residents of the creek with a cold breeze coming down from the mountain.

Elsie sat around the campfire with her daughters’ cousin’s Jimmy and Mary. Mary and Jimmy were sipping on some beer while Elsie puffed on a non-menthol cigarette, smoking it down to the filter until it started to burn her fingers. She flicked it into the fire, watching it burn. Deanne and Suzanne, Elsie’s daughters, were at Suzie’s house having a party. She preferred it that way as she rested her hand atop a stack of large and wide books. Her husband, Benjamin, was inside their cabin in the woods fast asleep.

The ones she cared for most were farthest away, decreasing the odds of irreparable damage. Elsie huffed, standing up from her lawn chair that’s tucked tightly in the sand. She bent down, gathering a few books into her arms, and walked closer to the fire. As she held the books in one arm, she signed the cross over her body. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit” she said to herself. “I ask you, Lord, please keep your hedge of protection around me. Bathe me in the love and light of your Kingdom. Amen.” Elsie inhaled sharply and took one book from the stack in her arm, and tossed it into the fire.

As the leather bound book landed in the flames, the scream of a woman echoed through the trees. A myriad of birds ascended from their nests in the tops of the trees; forming a large, black cloud that dove toward the water before flying down the length of the creek, cawing into the night sky. The fire flew high above the ground in a fiery tornado, stretching out toward their bodies. A gust of cold wind blew through the trees. Jimmy and Mary fell back in their chairs while Elsie stood her ground, shoving her feet into the sand. She took another book and tossed it into the inferno. The growl of a beast emanated from the fire itself. A large, disfigured face of a Hellhound pressed through, its teeth barred. A third book was tossed into the fire and the flame returned to normal, the woods going eerily quiet. The birds’ cawing was nonexistent as the wind howled. The lone crackling of the fire reverberated to far places.

“What the hell was that?” Jimmy hollered from the sand. He stood up, dusting off his pants and shaking the sand from his hair.

“He’s here,” Elsie replied, tossing one more book into the fire, her eyes never veering away.

“Mary, are you okay?” Jimmy turned to find Mary standing at the edge of the creek, motionless. He walked up behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder. “What are you doing—” He fell backward a few steps, backing into a large boulder, and turned to Elsie.

“What…what’s wrong with her eyes?” He asked.

Elsie didn’t move except to pick up more of her books by her feet, knowing Mary’s eye’s had turned black. She had been possessed.

“Elsie, help me! What is wrong with you?” His voice pleaded for help, for answers.

Elsie kept doing the only thing she should be doing: renouncing her black magick practices through the burning of her spell books.

One by one she stacked book after book into the fire, the voices of unrested souls surrounding her. Mary began walking into the middle of the creek with Jimmy following close behind her, furiously shaking her shoulders. She was gone, he was scared and panicking, and Elsie was calm, feeling the hands of the Devil slowly releasing his grip around her soul. She held the final three books in her hands when a roar escaped through the fire, throwing Elsie off her feet. But she didn’t drop the books. A loud and deep laughter swirled through the wind around her, filling her mind. She tried covering her ears, but the laugh grew louder and intensely more menacing and sadistic, matching the beat of her heart.

You think you can escape me?

“Mary! Mary! Wake the hell up! Elsie! Please help me!” The voice continued cackling.

How dare you defy me, Elsie? I own you and your life. We had a deal.

Elsie stood to her feet, grasping tightly to the spell books. This had to end and it must end now. If it didn’t, it never would.

“In Jesus’ name we pray. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy Name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in hea—” A large billow of wind blew through her.

You’re pathetic prayers will do nothing to stop me.

Elsie drops another book into the fire. The Devil shrieks in response.

“Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

Her body is fell weak; her knees begin buckling under her weight. The energy is draining from her soul as she flips another book into the fire. Just one more she thinks to herself. The Devil reveals himself through the fire, like how the hell hound did just moments ago. His eyes were black with emblems of blazing fire. He chose to avow himself as a regular man with the horns of a ram twisting halfway through each spiral. His face is thin and angular, not a freckle or blemish to be seen, similar to that of a porcelain doll. He was exquisitely terrifying.

“For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory for ever and ever. Amen!”

Elsie threw the last book into the fire. His screech blasted a wave of sound through Elsie, Jimmy, and Mary, rumbling and sloshing the water in the creek, shaking the ground she stood upon. Elsie watched as Mary fell into Jimmy’s arms before she herself fell to the ground.

This isn’t over, Elsie! I will be back, in one way or another. Hell will rise on earth! I will return!

His face receded back into the fire twister, which quickly fell back down to the ground and extinguished immediately, leaving a simple swirl of smoke emanating from the center of the fire pit.

Jimmy came out of the creek soaking wet and shivering, carrying Mary in his arms. He set down her limp and twitching body in the lawn chair. He turned on Elsie, looking down at her.

“What in God’s name just happened?” The lines of terror in his face began thinning out as the horror of the moment began to diminish, but the effect of shock quickly setting in.

“The ending to a new beginning.” Elsie said, gasping for breath.

He picked up a sopping wet Mary, heading towards the staircase that lead back up to the cabin. “We’ll see you later, Elsie. I think the rest is for you to deal with.”

Elsie watched as Jimmy carried Mary up the stairs, leaving a trail of water behind them. She felt a sting of defeat, like her soul had been taken away from her. Feelings of loneliness, self-hatred, and a deep depression washed over her being. She felt disappointed and worthless. She accomplished something monumental, yet felt the exact opposite. A single tear fell down her cheek.

As Elsie attempted and failed to push herself off the ground, a light began forming right behind her. She craned her neck over her shoulder, watching this majestic golden ray of light shimmer and shine. At the center of the blinding light came a male voice, calm and airy.

He cannot hurt you anymore, Elsie. You are safe.

She struggled to move to her feet. The light moved toward her, encasing her. The warmth of the light felt like a hug from God himself. As she kept trying to move to her feet, the light lifted her up, placing her upright on the ground. It felt like two arms slid underneath hers and hoisted her upward. Elsie wobbled back and forth, but the light kept her steady. Thank you she wanted to say aloud but couldn’t find her voice.

Elsie kicked some dirt onto the remaining bit of flame left of the fire, and walked to the stairs, taking them one by one until she reached the door to the cabin.

She never once looked back. 

[mslanna]

So I was reading part 2 of "Lesson in Patience" and I was so busy giggling and fanning myself over Raphael basically using his own lack of skill in bed as an excuse to be intimate with Tav that it took me far longer than I will ever admit to realizing that the title of part 2 was a play on words.

(I'm also now obsessed with yet another Raphael x Tav plot line you've made because this and "Be My Guest" are just- *chef's kiss*)

Um. My titles tend to be lyrics or puns or both. 😅 A Touch Too Much is actually a lyric in my head (AC/DC). Curious to see where you have the pun in there? 👀

And yes, Raphael will absolutely use any excuse to get Tav's hands on him. He's a sopping wet beast but still a scheming devil. 😂🥰

Heh, sorry for adding to you addiction. 😅 Happy you like Be My Guest though. 🥺