#( * visage | features born from thunder and lightning )

[shcbear]

D a c e y  M o r m o n t + ‘fite me’ vibes

[alstanfordart]

No One Really Dies In Derry

From The Bradley Gang chapter of Tales From Neibolt

The lightning pulses across the gray October sky as Arthur, decked out in his spectacles he seldom wore, leans under the hood of the broken down LaSalle. George and Al stand beside him, restless eyes switching between the car's innards and the moonless cloudy night sky, with the storm just beginning to gather momentum. George has a small flashlight raised just above Arthur's head, highlighting the smoking engine.

George's wife Kitty remains inside the vehicle, fingering her compact mirror, trying in vain to powder her nose in the less than adequate lighting.

Parked just behind the LaSalle was a Chevrolet, with Joe's arm hanging out the driver window, cigar smoke clouding from his thin lips, elbow rested along the door. His brother Cal sat in the passenger seat, leaning on his hand, looking thoroughly bored with the situation. In the backseat are Marie and Patrick, with Marie leaning against his thick brown coat.

"Think we can get it going again?" George queries as he nervously casts his gaze around them, his timorous visage briefly made visible in the crack of light that splits across the sky. Marie nuzzles closer to Patrick, tucking her head down as thunder rolls above them. Patrick pulls her closer, stroking her brown curls.

"The engine's blown..." Al offers, ducking down to inspect closer.

"Aye. Seen better days, I'm sure," Arthur slams the hood down and wipes his hands with a stained white handkerchief from his pants pocket. "This ain't goin' nowhere, lads."

"Shit," George straightens as he switches off the flashlight. "What we gonna do?"

"Dunno." comes Al's simple reply.

They were safe, far away from the Lafayette city limits. After dumping the body of the banker they'd kidnapped in a swamp after collecting the thirty thousand in ransom money, they were on Route 2 in direction to a town called Derry after a brief stop in Augusta. Arthur, however, had his sights set on Bangor. When the LaSalle broke down just short of them reaching the Derry welcome sign along the shadows of the trees on the outskirts of the town.

A hush falls over the group as Al saunters out onto the middle of the road, sniffling and kicking a pebble aside. That's when he sees, in the far off distance, a pair of headlights appearing almost out of nowhere. He rushes to the driver's side of the LaSalle and reaches for his Colt .38 revolver-small and discreet, so as to be presented at the first sign of trouble.

He stands and waits as George tosses the flashlight in through the back window of the LaSalle and stands alongside Al, arms folded, not nearly as alert as his big brother.

Inside the Chevrolet, Patrick rests his hand on his Luger laying on the seat beside Marie that he'd stolen off the body of a Lafayette officer.

Meanwhile, Joe and Cal also ready their weapons, with Joe craning his neck out the window to view the car drawing closer.

Arthur casually strolls to the passenger side, eyeing his own much larger Remington 22. Al preferred a sneak up and get them approach. Arthur preferred things more direct. If whoever this was coming up the road was going to give them trouble, they would be dealt with accordingly before they even knew what hit them.

The car, a Ford Roadster, quietly comes closer, eerily serene, the headlights taking on a more orange tint as it draws near. It comes to a stop alongside the Chevrolet, the silhouette of a driver, a man with hat, is barely visible.

As he shuts the engine off, he sits a moment, George tightens his grip on his revolver as Arthur keeps watch on his Remington. Then the man leans over to the passenger side, rolling down the window.

"You needing some help there?" a gravelly voice drifts out of the Ford, a hint of a lisp making the 's' sound more like 'shum.' Al snatches up the flashlight and strolls over, shining it in the man's face and is a little taken aback by what he sees.

Scars. Thin pale scars, ever so faint, threading up the man's creamy cheeks, beginning at the corners of his mouth and ending just under the rim of his Homburg hat.

"You needing some help?" the scarred man repeats. "I've fixed a car or two here and there. I could take a look-see."

"Yeah, yeah...sure." Al replies, studying the man's features, with his square jaw and intense round eyes.

This guy looks like he knows where some bodies are buried.

Al tenses as the driver side door pops open and the man emerges, revealing an incredibly tall frame in a sleek gray suit. Certainly taller than all of the men in their group.

In fact, he was a good foot taller than Al.

No matter. If this fellow pulled any funny business, they outnumbered him.

"Here," the man saunters over to the LaSalle, popping open the hood. He reaches his long arms in and begins tampering with the wires. Not long after there's a loud 'pop' sound and the engine roars back to life, taking a few minutes to struggle before running smoothly. Arthur gives a pleased nod of his head.

"Thanks mate!" He gives the man an enthusiastic pat on the back as Al looks relieved, exchanging glances with George.

"What's your name , my good sir?" George inquires.

"Robert. Robert Gray. Although folks 'round here call me Bob."

The man shuts the hood and returns to his car, before he removes his hat to give his scalp a quick scratch, revealing a shock of auburn.

"You folks needing a place to stay for the night? Something tells me you'd rather not be in a motel. Gotta place just a mile up the road. Nice and cozy," he gazes at Kitty and Marie. "The ladies can clean up. Sit by the fire, get warm. Maybe a hot meal."

Arthur looks at both George and Al, who in turn glance to Joe and Cal, with Patrick keeping his eyes on the strange man, sizing him up.

Something not right with that fella.

"I'm pretty knackered," Arthur whispers as he tilts closer to Al and George. "And if this chap thinks he's gonna pull something, we'll handle it. At any rate, we'd have a place to lay low. If he oversteps, we'll teach him a lesson."

"Looks like somebody already did." Al retorts before turning on his heel to face the man. "Alright. One night. We'll be outta your hair come morning."

"Great!" the man replies, grinning as he retreats back inside the Roadster. Patrick is watching the man from behind the foggy glass of the backseat window, brows knotting together as the man begins to drive ahead. Arthur, Al and George retreat back into the LaSalle and follow, with the Chevrolet right behind.

Patrick taps Joe on the shoulder. He grunts in response. "What's it now, Caudy?"

"That guy, he don't look right to me. Got a feelin' in my gut," Patrick says, keeping his dark eyes fixed ahead on the Roadster. "He's bad news, I can feel it."

"And if you're right, we'll put a bullet in his melon. No big deal. Guy seems kinda dopey to me anyhow," Joe says breezily as he chucks his cigar out the window. "Not really a threat. Doubt he's ever fired a gun in his life."

Patrick is not convinced. "You saw his face. He looks like a blind man tried to take a whack at him," he glances at Marie. "And I don't like how he was lookin' at her."

Joe chortles softly to himself. Doubt she'd mind it.

At this, point, both he and Cal had secret trysts with her behind Patrick's back. He suspected she'd also been fooling around with Arthur too. An assumption born out of her comment about his "sexy" Irish accent.

Funny, Patrick was suspicious of total strangers, but not the men he'd grown to call friends.

Maybe it's because he'd never had any before. His paranoia was off-putting but also what made him so kill crazy. Handsome to look at, but underneath was a volcano. Always ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

Not tonight. Joe would see to that.

"Don't go pulling any of that shit. We don't wanna be drawing attention to ourselves here. Not in this hick place. You know these small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Just keep quiet. We don't need a repeat of Toledo."

Patrick had gone ballistic on a gas attendant he'd thought muttered some smart-ass comment under his breath. They'd sped out of there after Patrick splattered the man's brains along the smooth concrete with a single clean bullet to the temple.

Patrick sits back, roughly pulling Marie to him as Joe glances at the street sign; 29 Neibolt.

The Roadster parks in front of a large Victorian house. With the LaSalle and Chevrolet lining up right behind.

"Whoa," Cal mumbles as he peers around his brother to glimpse the place. "Seems this fella might have some serious dough."

"Looks like a dump to me." Joe replies, shutting off the engine and swinging open the door. He was not a man who was easily impressed and he'd robbed much more grander mansions than this in Danville.

"Kinda gammy looking." Arthur mutters to himself as he slides out the LaSalle.

Patrick steps out, followed by Marie, who looks dazzled, her hazel eyes wide and her ruby red lips breaking out in a smile. It was the style of house that had always struck her fancy.

"This place is gorgeous. Just look at that architecture! It's a palace!" she exclaims as she rushes ahead, making her way to the front porch, past sunflowers sprouting from the grassy front yard. Robert reaches down and plucks one, handing it to Marie.

"Sunflowers symbolize healing and good luck." he elucidates as she tucks it behind her ear. Patrick stands glaring as Joe touches his shoulder.

"Don't. It's harmless." he growls.

"Thank you. That's really very sweet, sir." Marie touches the flower.

"Sweets to the sweet, I say." Robert replies.

Patrick shakes Joe's hand off before he stalks towards the porch as everyone begins to pile into the home. As elegant inside as out, with a lovely red Victorian chaise lounge, matching camelback sofa and parlor chairs, each one sitting across from each other in front of the fireplace. The mantel boldly read 'Good Cheer, Good Friends.'

George smiles and playfully swats Robert's arm. "We're good friends now, eh, Bob?"

And friends help each other.

Too bad we don't have the means to clean this place out. The furniture would make a buck or two.

Robert merely smirks. A slow, deliberate smile as he looks at George. "Sure thing there. Why don't you all have a seat. I'll be right back."

"That's what my ex-wife said." Arthur quips as he collapses on a parlor chair, sprawling his legs out. It takes him a moment to notice; there's a fire now crackling inside. He stares at it, puzzlement blinking across his mien.

Huh, when did he do that? It wasn't going when we arrived and he didn't go near it...

No matter. Just enjoy it.

Kitty approaches the mantel, running her long shiny nails along little figurines of clowns, each made of delicate painted porcelain, juggling, balancing and one holding a bundle of red balloons.

"These are beautiful figurines." she says, tucking a tendril of sandy blonde behind her ear, bringing her blue irises closer to examine the fine details.

"Take one. Just throw it in your purse. Might as well." George blurts out. Kitty whirls around.

"We're his guests. He was kind enough to let us in here-"

"Come now, lass. Let's not pretend this bloke is an average citizen. You saw his face." Arthur offers, stretching his arms and folding his hands behind his skull, giving her an amused expression. "Looks to me like he may have been in a wee bit of trouble. He was probably acting the maggot and someone decided enough was enough. Could be a right eejit."

"Yeah," Al cradles his chin in his left fingers, massaging the dark stubble. "There's something...I gotta feeling he wouldn't rat us off. There's no way he wouldn't of recognized me, at least."

He's hiding something himself. Al could always sense them. His fellow ' bad seeds.' The people who ran in the gutters. The lowlifes. He could always pick them out.

The wanted posters were scattered across the midwest, plastered along buildings, hanging in post offices and police stations baring Al's face; wanted for bank robbery kidnapping and murder, with a reward of five-thousand dollars offered. He'd taken up with his old childhood friends the Conklin brothers Joe and Cal, who were small time, with but a few petty theft arrests between them. Patrick had killed a cop in Lafayette during their last raid and prior to that had just a few arrests for assault. He was a friend of Joe and Cal from their early gang days and they'd reconnected with him when Joe briefly did time for robbery, knocking off a small liquor store in Bloomington. He and Patrick had shared a cell.

As for Arthur Malloy, also known as 'Creeping Jesus' because he was nearsighted, he'd fled Ireland after killing a man he claimed insulted his dead sister who'd just passed away from tuberculosis. ("Kicked 'em square in the plums, then put a bullet in his brains, I did.")They'd met when Arthur was attempting to knock off the same liquor store as them and offered his LaSalle that he'd stolen as a getaway.

Patrick's girlfriend Marie Hauser had inadvertently joined the gang, initially trying to persuade him to leave, but soon became an active member. But her role was mostly cooking and washing linens, hence her much-despised nickname, "The washerwoman."

George's wife Kitty Donahue was another matter. She entered the gang enthusiastically and without hesitation, but Al has never so much as seen a gun in her hands. Not one for shooting, she'd say.

Patrick sits on the camelback, with Marie beside him, still happily fingering the sunflower. He glances up as Robert emerges, hat and coat discarded and hair combed back. He points towards the kitchen.

"This way," he says, gliding down the stairs. "Let's eat. Got some stew heating on the stove. Some wine on the table."

Arthur pauses as they all stand, the edges of his brows coming together in rumination.

When did he get that going?

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he continues on with the others, with Kitty quickly swiping one of the figurines from the mantel and tucking it into her purse. The one with the balloons.

They all settle around the large rectangular mahogany-carved table with Robert dumping a hefty spoonful of a rather unappetizing red slop into each bowl. Patrick suddenly rises.

"Where's your bathroom?" he queries curtly.

Robert points. "Third door on the right."

Patrick darkly glances at Marie, then Robert before exiting. The murmuring of the group's voices fade as he stomps up the stairs, making his displeasure with the situation known. Of course, his real intention was to inspect this place. Make sure no one was hiding anywhere. He makes his way along the house's arteries, looking in various rooms, until he hears a door loudly creak. This makes him halt, glancing over his shoulder

The door to a room across from him is ajar, the lights inside faint, but enough to showcase what's inside.

Clown dolls.

Patrick charily begins to edge towards it, his boots stepping lightly as he sneaks up. He knew that man was strange. Something off about him. This could be an ambush. Nobody is this gracious. Not in his life experience. Everyone is always wanting something from you.

"Ah-ha!" he shouts, throwing open the door all the way and leaping in. He stands a moment, surveying the area with the clown dolls of all shapes and sizes along the wooden floor. Framed along the walls; more clowns of the sad crying variety.

"Jesus..." Patrick strolls over to the windows-also baring clowns-the circus-themed stained glass were partly obscured by thin brown cloths layered thick with dust.

Heh,heh.

Patrick spins around.

Who was that?

He reaches inside his coat and grips his Luger. "Hey, who's there?"

It had sounded like a man's voice inside the room with him, but before he could comprehend where a possible attacker could be hiding in here, he sees that the heads of the creepy dolls are now all turned towards him. Watching.

Whoosh.

The cloths covering the windows plunge to the floor and Patrick flinches as he turns to face the sound.

Hee!

Patrick does another turn around to face the clowns. That one sounded like a child. Specifically a girl coming from somewhere within the clutter of the room.

In that moment, Patrick feels something he hadn't felt in ages, since he was a boy running from his father's belt; fear. A powerful, overwhelming sense that he needed to leave this room now. The instinct to protect himself had kicked in.

He dashes towards the door, coming to a skidding stop before it slams shut. His breathing heavy, his heart hammering against the cavity of his chest.

Back in the kitchen, Patrick storms in, returning to his seat, sweat pearled along his large forehead. Marie touches his trembling hand.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine," he breathes, wild pupils directly on Robert. "Got a thing for clowns there, Bob?"

Robert slowly chews, staring back, before loudly swallowing. "Yes, sir. You could say that...I see you found my collection. "

"And it's a lovely one. I saw your figurines." Kitty interjects.

"Pretty fuckin' weird to me. A grown man..." Patrick grumbles. "What you hidin' in here?"

Robert sniffles, nibbling on his food. "Nothing, I assure you, Mr. Caudy-"

"Oh bullshit! What are you hidin'! What's in that room you freak!?" Patrick shouts as he stands, with Marie trying to subdue him and Joe mouthing curse words, when Kitty shrieking at the top of her lungs shatters the tension.

All eyes are drawn to her as she stares gaping at her spoon. "It's a finger!" she screams, holding it out for George to take a look. Upon inspecting it, he chuckles.

"It's a carrot honey." he pushes the vegetable slathered in red sauce around on the spoon.

"I swear, for a moment it looked just like a finger! A child's finger." Kitty pants, her palm clasped to her chest.

Patrick sinks back down to his chair, not taking his eyes off Robert, who chuckles.

"No fingers. Just an old family recipe, you could say."

"And what of your family Mr. Gray? Do you have a wife? Kids?" Marie chirps, trying to calmly rub Patrick's forearm. Robert considers a moment.

"No wife. No kids."

"Had to think about it huh?" Patrick cuts in. Joe gives him a swift kick to the shin under the table. Patrick glowers.

Unfazed, Robert continues, "I live alone. Just myself. Seems I've been alone for an eternity." he chortles that last line, as he sips his wine.

"I'd die from the loneliness." Marie replies.

"Nah, no one really dies in Derry." Robert says, to which an awkward silence falls over the table.

After a few beats of quiet. "So, uh, swinging bachelor huh?" George grins. "I kind of envy you..."

At this, Kitty scowls, gently, playfully swatting his arm. Al then stands, pushing his chair out. "Well, we best be getting to bed. We got an early start tomorrow." he announces.

Robert shows them to their rooms, pulling blankets from the closets for makeshift beds on the floors of the bedrooms to accommodate all of them, with Arthur opting to sleep downstairs on the camelback. Patrick keeps Marie locked in his sights as Robert bids them goodnight, shutting off the lights.

The house falls dark, with no sound, not even the thunder could be heard. Just deathly cold silence. As each member of the Bradley gang dozes off.

Patrick, having fallen asleep with troubled thoughts, realizing the man knew his surname when he'd not offered it, is soon awakened by a pair of hands on him. Small hands, shaking him violently.

"The Hell?" he mutters, wiping the sleepiness from his eyes as he looks up. Nothing there. He sits up, glancing at a slumbering Marie as he is pulled, almost hypnotically, to that odd clown room again. Almost as if waiting for him, the door swings open. Hearing the beckoning of a little girl's voice, not very audible before, but crystal clear now.

"Molly..." he whispers as he sees a miniature coffin now on display between the stained glass windows, the clown dolls forming a pathway as he approaches.. The door quietly shuts behind him as the coffin lid creaks open. He glances down at his hands, seeing he is now smaller, childlike, around twelve. The age he was when Molly drowned.

In her coffin, her eyes are closed, her face sweet. Her skin a pale blue and her brown ringlets held by pink ribbons. Sniffling, Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you." he whimpers through stinging tears. As he hangs his head, Molly's eyes burst open and she draws in a sharp breath.

"Ah!" Patrick stumbles backwards as Molly bolts upwards scowling, mouth sneering in contempt.

"Sorry for what? Hitting me in the head with that rock and accidentally knocking me into the river or running off like a coward? You didn't even try to save me, you fucking wimp."

She steps out of the coffin and leaps to the ground as Patrick watches her features distort, growing more white, her lips redder. She spreads her arms out, grinning maniacally, her angelic voice now raspy and insidious.

"Beautiful fear." she grins as she runs at him, roaring as she displays quill-like teeth, growing taller, her brown locks turning orange, her frilly pink dress becoming a gray-white. The clown dolls hiss with laughter as Patrick is backed against the door, which suddenly opens and Marie is there, screaming as the Molly creature, now a lanky tall clown with a striped face, comes at them. Patrick, now an adult man again, staggers up, terror gripping every inch of his being as he slams the door, yanking Molly away.

In the next room, George, Al and Kitty are awakened by the screams, as Kitty flips on the bedside lamp, standing just before them is the banker, covered in blackened mud and slime, his jaw dangling as he reaches his dislocated right limb out towards them. A deep otherworldly moan emitting from his misshapen mouth.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Kitty screams hysterically as George and Al reach for their guns, finding they are unable to fire.

"What the Hell! My gun is jammed up!" Al yells as they scramble for the door. Thankfully the banker zombie was nowhere near their escape route and they dash out, meeting Marie and Patrick, both holding each other. The lights above them flicker off and on, with a hideous high-pitched giggle echoing through the walls as Joe and Cal burst from their room, both looking pale.

As if they'd seen a ghost.

"That gas station worker Patrick iced? He's in our fucking room! Looking like he crawled straight outta his grave!" Cal yells.

Just then, they hear Arthur shouting. They all make their way downstairs, where Arthur is in the kitchen, his scrawny frame cowering against the wall, yelling as he points at a large boiling pot on the stove.

"I woke up and heard someone in the kitchen then I-I saw..." he stutters as he points a shaky finger at the pot. George steps over and gags at what he sees.

A head. Too disintegrated to tell the gender or age, boiling in blood. The sight and smell of rotting flesh sends George gagging and choking as he falls backwards, covering his mouth.

"Jesus fuck!"

"What is it?" Kitty demands.

"Never mind." George coughs.

Huddled together, they run towards the front door, The lights still flashing, the ugly laugh still reverberating. They all jump into their cars and by the grace of God, the LaSalle starts, engine blaring as they speed away. Some only barely clothed, with Marie wrapped in Patrick's coat that she often slept in to keep warm.

As dawn bleeds through the sky and the gang take refuge in a nearby farmhouse, the extra clothes and guns in the trunks of the cars coming in handy, The women take a calming trip to Freese's with Patrick in tow while the rest of the men went to Machen's Sporting Goods to order some more supplies. Lal, the owner, recognized Al immediately, despite the fake name he'd given; Richard D. Rader, and informed some of his buddies that he was expecting Al Bradley at two in the afternoon the day after tomorrow and just as the LaSalle and Chevrolet came into view on Main Street, the gang of Derry residents, armed to the teeth, opened fire.

As the shoot-out ensues, Biff Marlow, one of the gunmen, spies a scar-faced man in a gray suit with a sunflower tucked in the left breast pocket firing a Remington along with them. In fact, all the gunmen had spotted this complete stranger. They all figured he was an outsider wanting to join the party. Afterwards, as the bodies of the notorious Bradley Gang were on display in the bullet-ridden Chevrolet and LaSalle, Marlow watches as the man strolls away, whistling, one hand cradling the Remington on his shoulder, the other in his pocket.

Marlow could never be certain, and it bothered him for years after. Something he related to his drinking buddies while reminiscing about the killings. He could have sworn that, despite the bright sunlight, the stranger didn't cast any shadow.

No shadow at all.

[yuexins]

𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝙴𝚃𝙰𝙻𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝚃𝚄𝚂, 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙼𝚈 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴:       ???​​                 /                   You're secretly happy that Wei Wuxian is gone, aren't you, Jiang Cheng? Finally no one to steal your spotlight.

fire lights up within those mourning hues of his,   the first emotion he feels in ages is almost akin to anger   &    zǐdiàn reacts to its owner’s emotions,   flickering to life where it lays dormant ‘pon his wrist.   electricity sparks up his body at those words   &   he roars to life,   slashing wherever he can with his whip.   akin to a child throwing a tantrum does he move,   lips curling into a severe scowl   &   his features pinching together in disbelief. 

he’s angry.   he does not understand why.

(  or,   perhaps,   he does.   he’s angry because a part of him sings to this person’s truthful tune.   he’s angry because he’s selfish   &   he’s needy   &   he’s desperate to be first,   to be seen for who he is-   not for wei wuxian’s disappointing shīdì.   not for wei wuxian’s lifeline.   not for wei wuxian’s failures.  )

zǐdiàn comes down on the floor with a thunderous crash,   electricity dancing along the newly formed crack as his chest heaves,   sweat beading at his forehead with dilated pupils,   the look on his visage borderline manic.      “   shut up,   ”      jiang cheng hisses out,   his eyes cutting to the dízi resting in the corner of his room,   haphazardly yet tossed aside with the slightest hint of care.        the fucking flute-   it’s mocking me.   it’s talking to me.   wei wuxian,   you-

another heavy breath,   another wave of wisteria - tinted lightning crackling in the air.   the energy is charged ‘tween jiang cheng   &    chénqíng’s spirit,   wei wuxian’s lost spirit                            though it feels like a losing battle where he succumbs to this blunt honesty,   where he finally accepts that,   yes,   he is happy that wei wuxian is gone.   he has all the light to himself   &   now they will look at jiang cheng for who he is rather than for who he was under.      “   shut up!   wei wuxian,   even in death you still come to haunt me!   you thought of nothing but yourself!   you-   what would you know?   what would you know?!   ”     zǐdiàn cries along with jiang cheng,   lashes out at chénqíng with the anger of a thousand fierce corpses,   &   one would expect the instrument to snap cleanly in half but it doesn’t.   no,    chénqíng’s spiritual energy bursts out in retaliation to zǐdiàn’s anger-   it’s heavy enough to push jiang cheng to his knees with trembling pupils   &   sweaty palms,   the hissing whip beginning to coil away on jiang cheng’s command.

anger is not a new emotion to the young sect leader;   in fact,   one could even say that he had been born red with anger,   that his cheeks were flushed with irritation.   under his mother’s watchful eye,   he absorbed every bit of her resentfulness   &   curated it into a weapon of his own likeness.   his fingers curl around his whip’s hilt with a snarl,   then a scoff as he eyes the unharmed flute in the corner.      “   how nice.   ”      but it dies out when zǐdiàn’s light weakens   &   the shape of the whip recoils into a snake curling around his wrist in a form of ice - cold security.    chénqíng is mocking him from where it lays there,   obsidian body gleaming under the wisteria glow.

jiang cheng stays on his knees,   breaths coming out heavy still but shaky   &   on the verge of tearing at the seams.   a knuckle presses into the flooring as teeth catch at his lower lip,   tears free - falling,   unbidden,   in front of him   &   eventually,   he finds he can barely keep upright.   folding over onto the cold flooring,   jiang cheng buries his face into his arms   &   sobs.      “   you left me all alone.   you said we would be the twin heroes but you broke your promise   &   left me.   what would you know,   wei wuxian?   ”      a pause.   jiang cheng sounds insane,   talking to a mere flute in this manner  ( &  yet,   this is all he did for the thirteen years his shīxiōng had been gone,   in hopes that one day he will come back ).      “   you remain selfish even in death-   you struck down on everyone else   &   left me with no one else.   you left jin ling with no one.   ”      a watery laugh escapes his bitten,   bloodied lips   &   the gaze that is usually so headstrong,   so full of fire,   seems to have been extinguished into nothingness.      “   steal my spotlight,   you say?   you even took that with you to the soil.   even now,   they talk.   they talk about how i had sent you to your death,   they still talk about your accomplishments over my own during the campaign.   just what did you leave me with?!   haha   ...   wei wuxian,   you selfish prick.   ”

chénqíng’s glow falters in response to his pained words   &   jiang cheng turns his head,   attempts to get up without falling over so he can make his way to his bed.   a deep   &   carved - out ache resides within his chest,   knuckles pressing into his cheeks to stop the rush of hot tears.      happy?   how can i be happy like this?   

ACCUSE MY MUSES,                ACCEPTING.

[jojoingjoseph]

i am herte to deliver 1 soft.

FATE EVER CUMBROUS, borne from revelations of sorrow && guilt —— those mandated drift upon her shepherding zephyrs ; call themselves warriors of valour.

beneath the murmurs of a indolent dawn should tentative fingers caress formless scars, wisps of ruination, alleviation accentuated in the tips of his fingers. he lays beside Joseph && how rapacious might he be, to bear witness not only to the tenderness of courted brow && pouting lip but to what lay beneath it in enigmatic elusiveness —— is it really such a felony to swill that ichor ? saviour that expression in quietude ?

❝ grotesquely you speak of them. ❞ dipping his head, in chaste murmurs should his lips meander across tanned skin, the lustre of blonde locks captured in transient scintillation cavorting in his wake. ❝ yet i find them to be quite the opposite. ❞ cathartic —— spoken upon veracity’s tongue, he spares a glance northward, the subtle rise of his lips almost teasing ❝ they are part of what makes you so charming, il mio amore. ❞

—-

The air held it’s breath, listless, endless, it might as well stretched for eons before the Italian saw fit to grace the atmosphere with his words. The soothing pitter-patters of rain began to sprinkle against the glass windows allowing the twilight of Dawn’s blessing filter through, small streaks of lightning dancing across the sky followed by Thunder’s growl over yonder. The way those fingertips glided over the expanse of his flesh earned nothing more than a silent permission to continue, not a single a twitch flinched at the built muscle rippling beneath all the while. 

Joseph’s lips pursed themselves, his brows knitted together in that familiar fashion of mock Displeasure. He simply laid upon his back with his hands supporting the back of his skull, a pent up scoff muttering off his lower lip. Brusk as he may have appeared, it was nothing more than a transparent facade thinly veiling over his chiseled features. Each thick or thin line streaking across his bare torso or trailing over his arms attested to many fights; won and lost in the simplest of terms. He could very well recall a good number of each marring encounter etched into his flesh, however that wasn’t at the forefront of his mind at those ticking slices of Time underneath the peeking rays of sunlight.

Nothing dared to tumble itself off that normally smart tongue of his, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth as though it were as good as any verbal reply. At a glance, the man may have seemed impudent and irritable yet as with his very Nature and the way he handled things, the Tiniest of Details were all that One need only pay utmost attention to. 

★ “ I never said I won every fight I got myself into, ” The Joestar began, halting in the second part to his thought after Zeppeli had tagged those last words, taking to time to finish after another few seconds were offered, “ and you know Damn well where the ones on my torso came from. ”

His voice retained a sense of quietness to them, briefly closing his eyes in wait before they’d dare to creak themselves open in a gaze towards the other’s phantom smirk gracing their visage. A warm glint kindled within those Oceanic orbs, the small nudge of his thick brows quirked before turning his head towards the side in a teasing scoff.

★ “ Yeah, Whatever, Mr. Casonova. I’m telling you right now your cheesy attempts won’t work on me like they do for those girls you flirt with. I’m wise to your shit talking, ” Charming. These scars were Charming to that soft-headed, soggy piece of lame pick-up lines? It wasn’t something that Joseph would’ve seen as anything less than an ode to his experience, and for some marks adorning him; Honorable. 

Charming was those eyes looking up at him, that infuriating mouth of Caesar’s teasing and prodding at him with that annoyingly endearing accent of his. It was looking him at those damnable scars and seeing them as something worth being Admired over than seen as something that marred over an otherwise attractive, sun tanned hide.

However ‘ scathing ’ as his remarks may have been, there remained a Teasing tone clinging at the end, daring for the other to continue tracing their fingers over the bare contours of his torso and grace those pretty lips wherever they saw fit.

★ “ Warning you, you’re gonna have to do a lot better to get me to swoon for your lame lines~ ” Right then, a smirk couldn’t help but pull itself over his lips, shattering whatever mask of Seriousness that may have been fruitlessly attempted to maintain. A playful set of giggles gently quaked over his thorax, pulling out one arm to reach over and slide his fingers underneath the sharp of the other’s chin while the brunet arched his spine to sit up. The man’s irises locked themselves with the blonde’s, sure-footed confidence never strayed from those bright eyes of Joseph’s. His smirk faded to a smile, the words already chosen themselves before the brunet uttered them without a shred of hesitation.

★ “ But, you know, I don’t mind hearing your voice every time you dare to utter those cavity inducing lines of yours. If these ugly scars are seen as Charming to you, well then, I’ll gladly wear them with pride. ”

★ “ I want your Attention solely on me, as selfish as that sounds, Caesar. ”

[webcricket]

It Happened Like This

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester

Word Count: 4521

Summary: Castiel hears the haunted tale of how the reader and the Winchesters first met. Everyone involved remembers the story a little bit differently. Tiny bit of angst with heaping helpings of fluff and humor.

A/N: This fic is a mostly factual semi-autobiographical account turned reader insert of an experience I had in college with a spirit. Some details have been altered for entertainment purposes and to protect the identities of those involved. I mean, obviously Castiel is my boyfriend and I personally know Sam and Dean Winchester because they are real people, so that part is definitely true. I blame this fic on @willowing-love who took the bait first and asked for my real-life ghost story.

Forehead resting on the cold glass of the Impala’s window, you watched the landscape fly by at 90 miles an hour – an uninterrupted blur of autumn leaves and harvested fields. Not so long ago this was your favorite time of year – nothing but crisp dewy nights, pumpkin spice everything, chunky sweaters and cozy socks with nature tucking herself to bed for the season beneath a warm-hued mantle of ruddy and golden pigments.

An unruly wisp of hair broke loose at your temple in the brisk breeze from Dean’s cracked window. It tickled your eyes and you swatted at it absent-mindedly, reverie uninterrupted as you plodded farther back into the memory of a simpler time. Not so long ago the beauty of the world shone to you in unblemished innocence. Now you understood the literal lie of the land, her sinister underbelly exposed. Now your days and nights teemed with the supernatural. Fall in particular, culminating with Halloween, or Samhain, or All Hallows’ Eve, or whatever the villain of the week wanted to call it, seemed to parade out more than its fair share of monsters, and not the adorable candy seeking variety.

Sighing, your breath misted the window. You traced the outline of a jack-o’-lantern in the fog, erasing the grinning visage with another lungful of exhaled air. You never imagined this would be your life.

A calloused fingertip gently swept the errant lock of hair from your eyes, securing it behind your ear. “What are you thinking about?” Castiel asked from beside you, astutely concerned your wakeful quietude meant something weighed heavy on your mind.

You turned from the window, focusing to meet his inquisitive blue gaze. “Just, you know, autumn…the colors…it’s really beautiful out there, isn’t it?” you softly murmured, uttering the sentiment aloud to remind yourself of nature’s splendor, to convince yourself the beauty of creation still existed despite the ever-present danger lurking below the placid guise.

Cas brushed a thumb across your cheek, eyes glinting with affection as he studied your features and ignored the passing scenery. He nodded after a moment, agreeing, “Yes, absolutely breathtaking.”

“You didn’t even look,” you blushed at the compliment, fingers delving beneath his coat to tease at his ribcage in retaliation for perpetually being so sweet. A small smile danced across your rose-tinted features as his ticklish vessel squirmed. You also never imagined falling in love with an angel.

“I did look,” he countered in a strained squeaking tone. Clutching at your wrists and wriggling away from your delightful assault, he reflected your smile, aspect softening with a tenderness reserved only for you. “I just didn’t have to look very far to see the beauty of my father’s creation.” Sliding an arm around your shoulders, he pulled you to his chest and gave you a comforting squeeze as you nestled against him.

Your regard settled on Sam and Dean bickering in the front seat about where to stop for dinner. Dean, unsurprisingly, favored a dive bar a few miles off the interstate for their amazing nachos. Sam craved real food over the neon orange faux-cheese and lukewarm beer that, at this point, probably coursed copious and congealed through his brother’s veins.

Any second now Dean would peer back at you via the rear view mirror, vibrant green eyes pleading for your vote of support in the matter. Sam would then swing a lanky arm over the back of the seat, twisting around to face you, begging you with a quirk of the brow to, for the love of Chuck, please be reasonable in your choice. Lightly giggling to yourself in anticipation, burrowing deeper into the angel’s embrace, your thoughts again drifted inexorably to the past. You never imagined these two men would become your surrogate big brothers either.

You weren’t born into hunting like Sam and Dean. Nor did you suffer some mortal wrong or tragic loss on account of something supernatural that spurred you on a hell-bent lifelong crusade seeking vengeance. You enjoyed a happy childhood, fortunate enough to possess a generally supportive family with a stable home life. There were a few awkward years between middle and high school where your hair, body, and personality were seemingly at odds with the entire planet, or gravity. Hard to say which, really; but you got through it all by utilizing the usual rebellious self-dramatizing tried and true teenage tactics. Then away you went to college, proclaiming independence by setting off for the hallowed halls of an institution several cushioning states from your roots. After a couple of unexpected bumps in the road going by the name of Sam and Dean, you graduated with a piece of paper designating you as an official English and Psychology duel major with a Russian Lit minor. The gravitas of these words in delicate black script on eggshell finish parchment, tastefully framed in gleaming cherry wood beneath frosted glass, imparted you with an enormous sense of self-importance. That is, until reality sunk in.

You became a hunter because, to your chagrin, you discovered upon exiting the cushioning bubble of academia that you were qualified to do precisely nothing in particular and very few employers offer paying positions for this interesting and generally useless skill set. Drudge work for minimum wage, or worse, the coveted unpaid internships people fall over one another to pursue, numbed your wits and barely paid the bills. You longed for excitement, adventure, and escape from the daily grind of squeaking by and getting nowhere fast. Hunting was the backup plan you stumbled into when the student loan lenders came calling. You chose to be a hunter. You chose this life.

“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Dean spoke up, he and Sam evidently having resolved the dinner plan without your input. “You good?”

“Living the dream,” you muttered.

Cas squinted fretfully down at your melancholy mien.

Sam flicked the radio off, exchanging a worried glance with his brother.

They all three knew your mind and mood were apt to wander on occasion into the disconcerting and anxiety-riddled land of the what ifs? You wouldn’t trade your relationship with the angel or the brothers for anything in the world, but that didn’t dissuade regret about everything else from rearing her ugly head and casting a malicious sneer upon you every now and then.

There was only one sure fire way to pull you out of a funk that didn’t involve a malted chocolate milkshake or a certain special angel’s worshipful ministrations of sensuously directed grace. And although well-stocked with a staggering variety of spell ingredients, the Impala’s trunk wasn’t equipped with the requisite fixings for even a paltry-by-comparison vanilla milkshake. And Dean strictly, and quite unreasonably you thought, forbade any and all angelic affection exceeding a rating of PG-13 to occur within 25 yards of the Impala or his physical person.

“Hey Cas, did Y/N ever tell you how we met?” Sam mused, implementing step one – the suggestion to share – of the story-telling distraction method for uplifting your spirits.

The angel looped a finger under your chin and tilted your aspect upward, answering, “Only in passing, but I would like to hear the details.”

“Maybe some other time,” you whined, shaking free of Cas’ caress to bury your face in the crook of his arm, preferring to wallow in woe a while longer.

Cas obligingly cuddled you closer.

“Aw, come on. A ghost story is perfect for Halloween night,” Dean stubbornly protested, whacking the steering wheel for emphasis.

“I’m sure Dean can tell it better than me,” you mumbled into the fabric of the angel’s trench.

The elder Winchester peeked back in the rear view mirror, catching Cas’ concerned gaze. Employing step two – spreading misinformation as a means of provocation – Dean snorted and smirked, “You’re probably right. And it’s my favorite kind of story too. Sammy and I swooping in to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Hold up there, prince charming!” you huffed, extricating yourself from the angel’s hug to kick Dean’s seat. “That’s not what happened. I saved your asses.”

Dean feigned a wounded pout, muttering, “Yeah, right. Not how I remember it, princess.”

“I recall it being more of a group effort,” Sam goaded, seamlessly transitioning to step three – dangling the bait for you to set the record straight.

“Well, it’s my story,” you reproached, swallowing the bait – hook, line, and sinker, “and this is how it happened.” You began, “It was a dark and stormy Thursday night-”

“I thought it was a sunny Friday afternoon?” Dean quipped.

“Context!” you snapped. “I did have a life of my own before you two flannel flaunting interlopers showed up on my doorstep.”

“I’m pretty sure it was raining on our drive there,” Sam reminded Dean.

“When isn’t it raining?” Dean lamented, flicking on the windshield wipers as droplets coincidentally started to pellet the glass.

You sighed audibly, continuing from the top, “It was a dark and stormy Thursday night...”

Lightning illuminated the room, flashing blinding white through the oversized window panes overlooking the rain drenched courtyard. One, two, three, the thunder rumbled in retort, shaking the stone foundation of the historical building converted into a women’s dorm. The lamp on your desk flickered. “Not again,” you mumbled, closing your book – a disinteresting text on the statistics of psychology. You peered up at the ceiling in exasperation. Bam! Just as you expected. Light and noise in unison heralding pitch black as the power failed – a blazing slice of nature’s raw fury targeting the metal railing on the peak of the building and blowing every fuse in the place as it travelled the old wiring in frenetic search of the ground. You’d begun to think the college housing department had overstated the charming quirks of living in the historically rooted building – part of the original campus and used as a temporary Union hospital and soldier’s barracks during the Civil War. The lobby of the building even boasted a creepy collection of sepia-toned photographs – one with soldiers’ lifeless bodies laid out on the front lawn, another of the pile of amputated bullet and shrapnel battered limbs in the basement. This was the third time in as many weeks that a storm knocked out the power, and being alone in a site steeped in suffering and death, with the obligatory ghost stories attached to such locations, was more than a little unnerving.

“Battlefield towns are a massive pain in the ass,” Dean interrupted, whacking his brother on the arm. “Remember what Bobby used to say about them?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed sentimentally, “he called them a hunter’s worst freaking nightmare. How do you salt and burn a body when pieces of it are scattered everywhere?”

“You don’t.” Dean let go of the steering wheel to mime an explosion.

“Anyway,” you went on, clearing your throat.

You slid carefully off the bed, blindly rummaging through your roommate’s top dresser drawer for the contraband candle and lighter she kept in there. You lit the stubborn wax-covered wick, singing the pad of your thumb with the lighter. Sucking your stinging finger, you studied the now strange shapes of furniture in the corners of the room from the safety of the yellow ring of light. You reassured yourself that your roommates would return any minute from band practice. They wouldn’t dally, not tonight, you had plans to go into town together for a late dinner and dessert at that quaint diner on Main.

Knock, knock, knock, “Campus security!”

“Shit!” you hissed, jumping out of your skin in fright, dousing the flame between your fingertips to minimize the smell of smoke. “Coming!” Scrambling, you cracked the nearest window and hid the candle on the ledge.

“No can-” the guard faltered when you swung open the door “-les allowed. Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to put out your candle.”

You batted your lashes as if to ask, ‘What candle?’

He looked behind you into the blackness, apologizing, “Sorry, from outside it looked like-”

“Maybe it was next door?” you offered helpfully.

“Rebel,” Sam coughed teasingly.

You ignored him.

With security routed, you huddled on the floor beside the door, back to the wall, listening to the thinning patter of rain on the window glass. The thunder, answering the fading electric glow of the clouds, was almost too distant to hear now.

Tap, tap, tap.

You stared up at the door, waiting for the guard to announce himself, relieved this time you had nothing to hide. No words followed.

Tap, tap, tap. Again. Maybe your roommates had forgotten their keys.

You stood, grabbing the knob of the heavy wooden door and cracking it open to peer into the hall. No one was there. A cold breeze rushed over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine and making your hair stand on end. The window in the room behind, left open in your haste to hide the candle, slammed shut. The startled cry rising in your throat died as you heard the voices of your roommates on the stair landing below. ‘A trick of the wind,’ you told yourself, taking a deep breath.

“That one girl, what was her name?” Dean pondered aloud. “Mandy? Yeah, Mandy. She was hot.”

“Yes, Mandy,” you confirmed with a punctuating eye roll.

Your roommates, Mandy and Jen, crashed after you all returned from the diner. They were leaving early with the rest of the marching band for an away game the next morning. Too hyped on adrenaline from the night’s events and sugar from the most fantastic chocolate malt milkshake you’d ever drunk to sleep, you wasted a few hours playing computer games.

“Sims, you were playing Sims,” Sam remembered with a smirk. “It was running on your computer when I borrowed it for research. They all drowned in the pool after you removed the ladder.”

“You borrowed my computer?” you griped.

“Yep, when we broke into your room on that Friday when the sun was shining,” Dean supplied, glowering at Sam. “It’s also possible I borrowed half a bag of pretzel rods.”

“Seriously?” you scorned.

“I’ll buy you a bag at the next Gas-N-Sip and we’ll call it even.”

It was nearing 3AM when you finally crawled into bed. This time of night always made you uneasy on account of a story you heard as a kid about the 3AM being the witching hour – when supernatural forces are at their most sinister and powerful. You superstitiously endeavored not to look at the red digital numbers of the clock and pulled the covers taunt.

Tap, tap, tap.

The strange almost-knocking scuff upon the door roused you as you hovered at the brink of unconsciousness.

Tap, tap, tap.

Jen, her bed closest to the door, seemed to hear it too, mumbling in her sleep and rolling over.

Tap, tap, tap.

A bone penetrating chill seizing your frame, you pulled the comforter up to your neck.

The floor creaked. Specifically, the wood plank in front of the door creaked – the plank on the inside side. The one that only creaked like that when someone crossed the threshold and stepped into the room.

You got the distinct impression there was a presence walking toward you. Paralyzed by terror, you couldn’t look. You didn’t hear the door open, you reasoned. No one could be there. You were imagining things.

Mandy joined in Jen’s restlessness as whatever it was moved past her bed.

You held your breath, eyes squeezed tight, repeating the mantra that this wasn’t real. You were only dreaming. Any second now you would wake up gasping in a clammy sweat from this nightmare. Any second now. Any. Your eyes opened in slits. Second. Your gasping throat was immediately assailed by a mass of ethereal energy. Now. It stole the very air from your lungs as you tried desperately to scream – to cry out and wake your slumbering roommates. And then, in a blink, it was over – the room silent save for your rapidly pounding heart.

The angel’s fingers sought and wove through yours, soothing the flood of fear the memory unleashed.

You trudged through your classes in a preoccupied haze the next morning, thoughts turning again and again to the terrifying episode. Surely it was a nightmare, but you couldn’t shake how real it felt. Returning to your room for lunch, focus no farther the ground between your feet as you walked up to the dorm, you ran smack into the chiseled torso of an extremely tall man wearing an electrician’s uniform with handsome hazel eyes.

“Woah, hey, hi. Sorry,” he apologized, dropping his duffle of tools to stoop to help you retrieve several fallen books. “Let me.”

“That was me,” Sam piped up to inform Cas.

You gestured at the man’s shirt, asking, “You here about the power outages?”

“Yeah.” The man stacked the books, glancing over his shoulder at the building and back at you. “Hey, you live there, right?”

You accepted the books proffered in his arms, nodding.

“You notice any strange noises, cold spots, funny smells?” another man in a matching uniform inquired as he approached.

“Dean?” Cas suggested, stealing the elder Winchesters thunder.

You gaped at the new freckle-faced arrival for a moment and contemplated his odd question. You supposed fizzing or burning wires might account for the peculiar query, but something seemed off about him. About both of them. Your gaze fell to the partially opened duffle bag at your feet, taking note of the decidedly non-traditional collection of electrician’s tools contained therein – a large quantity of rock salt, an iron crowbar, chains of varying size and length, and what looked alarmingly like the barrel of a sawed off shotgun. You peered around the empty courtyard, feeling vulnerable, reflexively stepping backward. “Um, nope, just, you know, the power outages and what not.”

“Oh, see, she must think we’re looking for ghosts.” The man with the freckles laughed, gesturing a thumb toward the dorm, trying to diffuse your nerves.

“Right, cause this place was a hospital,” the hazel-eyed man added. “Didn’t a bunch of soldiers die here, or something?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s, uh, it’s all there in the lobby,” you stuttered, waving at the dorm. “I’m, uh, I have to, I think I forgot something at the library.” You spun and fled, cutting a beeline across the grass without looking back.

“Were we really that scary?” Sam pivoted to ask.

“Were?” You arched a brow. “You guys still scare the crap out of me on a regular basis!”

You found yourself on the third floor of the library, wandering a maze of special collections with no goal other than killing time. You ran your fingers lightly across the dusty spines of rows upon rows of first edition books. Something about books always had a way of settling your anxiety. An unseen force compelled you to turn down an aisle where a thin faded sky blue tome with no title written on the spine drew your attention. You slipped it from the shelf, flipping it over in your hands to view the cover. The image imprinted there caused your breath to hitch – it was a person lying in bed with a malevolent scowling creature perched upon their chest. Fingers trembling, you opened to the first page, whispering the title aloud, ‘The Terror that Comes in the Night.’ Knees weak, you sank to the floor. You had no idea how you came to find this book, a tome that promised to reveal an explanation for what had happened to you last night.

“That was probably Clotho’s work,” Cas stated matter-of-factly.

“What?” you turned to him in surprise.

“One of the sisters of fate, Clotho,” Cas repeated. “Surely it was she who led you to the book. She’s always been fond of words as a means to direct fate. It’s an obsession of hers.”

You smiled at the angel, never having guessed he would unveil new significance to your story.

You read the book front to back, sprawled out there on the scratchy carpet of the library. The supernatural creature who visited you was known in folklore as an Old Hag. It could be controlled and sent by a witch to take vengeance on foes, or simply be a restless spirit, a human soul transfigured by agony and grief, doomed to spread misery until such time as it was destroyed. Since you were fairly certain you hadn’t enraged any witches, you guessed your problem was the latter. Either way, the lore contended this creature would plague you until you defeated it, or it killed you. Naïve and overconfident in your abilities, you figured destroying it couldn’t be any harder than getting a passing grade in organic chemistry.

You made your way back to your room as evening descended on the campus. Pushing open the door you shouted a greeting to your roommates, “Hey guys, how-” You remembered with a sinking feeling that they were gone, cheering on the football team, and not expected back until morning. You nervously flicked on the overhead light – and every other light in the room. A firm knock at the door disrupted your luminous fortifications. “Who is it?” you asked through the closed door.

“The, uh, electricians,” someone replied uncertainly. “Do you have a minute?”

‘Right, electricians,’ you thought, ‘or not.’ Your eyes darted around the room, landing on Jen’s can of pepper spray she carried when running. You grabbed the can, notched the chain of the door, and cracked it an inch, bristling, “Who the hell are you guys?”

The toe of a boot braced against the door to prevent you from closing it, “Y/N, listen, we’re not axe-murdering kidnappers or whatever you think we are, we just want to help.”

You peeked through the crack, it was the tall man speaking. “Well start with telling me who you are and how you know my name.”

“College directory, Myspace, that weird little developmental psych professor that teaches your 8AM class and pets himself while he lectures, take your pick,” the green-eyed man grumbled. “We don’t have time for the full explanation. I’m Dean. This is my brother Sam. We hunt bad things and your life is in danger and not from us.”

“I know,” you murmured.

“You do?” Sam asked.

“I kind of figured the luminescent apparition that tried to strangle me last night wasn’t exactly Casper the friendly ghost.” You unlatched the door to allow them to enter. “How did you know?”

“We ganked the witch that sicced this thing on you last week.” Dean brushed past you. “Her name was Lily Donaghue, you know her?”

“Ganked? Witch?” you gaped in disbelief, not recognizing the name.

“He means we killed her,” Sam clarified. “Her dying declaration was a curse upon you.”

“And you have no idea how many Y/N Y/L/Ns exist in this country,” Dean lamented.

“What did I do to her?” Head reeling, you sat on the edge of Jen’s bed to steady yourself. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Hell if we know.” Dean shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it was for something you were going to do in the future. She specialized in destiny spells.”

“So,” you spoke up after letting their explanation sink in, “what do we do?”

“You,” Dean emphasized the word, “well you just try to stay alive, sweetheart, and we’ll worry about the rest.”

“You took it all in stride,” Dean reminisced. “I never told you that, most people freak out when you tell them an evil creature is stalking their soul.”

“Well, at the time I assumed you were professionals and knew what you were doing,” you sassed. “Had I known then what I know now-”

They expected you to fall asleep. You rolled over in bed to look at the wall. They expected you to fall asleep in your bed which, for some bizarre reason you did not think to inquire about, was surrounded by salt while they watched and waited. Like that was happening! You flipped over again. The clock read 2:59AM. You shivered involuntarily when the numbers flashed to 3:00.

Tap, tap, tap.

You heard Sam and Dean shift to readiness.

Tap, tap, tap.

The firing pin of a gun cocked.

Creak went the wooden plank.

The shotgun blasted a round of rock salt.

Sam groaned as he was thrown against the wall and pinned there, flaying his long limbs uselessly and clutching at his neck.

“Dammit!” Dean cursed as the iron crowbar he held defied gravity to clatter to the ceiling. Further curses damned up in his throat as he was tossed choking to the floor like a rag doll by the evil creature who had come for you.

You sat up, throwing aside your comforter, willing yourself to look at the hideous thing, its features distorted in agony, jaw open in a perpetual scream, its clawed limb pointed toward you as your fingers fumbled to retrieve the little blue tome from beneath your pillow. You flipped to the final page of the text and began to read in desperation as the creature simultaneously squeezed the air from your lungs, “Malo a nos libera sed tentationem in nos inducas-”

“The Lord’s Prayer,” Cas noted. “In Vulgate and backward.”

You nodded.

The book was correct – the hag shuddered and flickered, growing weaker with each word you uttered. When you reached the final line, you ran out of breath. Squeaking, tongue a useless dry lump writhing against your teeth, lungs empty and collapsed, your vision dimmed at the edges as unconsciousness loomed. The last sight you registered before passing out were Sam’s hazel eyes, brightening as the creature’s energy sapped enough to free his throat.

“Caelis in es qui noster pater!” Sam roared out, having caught on halfway through that you were reciting the Lord’s Prayer backward, and surmising you had a good reason to be doing so.

Dean released the steering wheel to mime another explosion, the hag’s demise.

“Like I said, group effort,” Sam restated.

“You forgot my favorite part,” Dean smirked, twinkling eyes catching yours in the rear view mirror. “The happy ending.”

“I didn’t forget, Dean,” you objected, “I blessedly don’t remember.”

Cas held up two fingers to your temple, earnestly saying, “I can help you to remember.”

“No!” You yelped, grabbing his wrist and twisting it away. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Why? What happened after the creature was destroyed?” Cas looked to Sam and Dean for the answer.

Dean’s smirk deepened.

Sam chuckled, “Dean, uh, had to-”

“-give Y/N the kiss of life,” Dean finished.

The angel’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Mouth to mouth,” Sam elucidated. “CPR.”

“Oh.” Cas subtly scowled at the back of Dean’s head. “I see.”

You pecked a quick kiss on the jealous angel’s stubbly cheek.

Cas looked at you, blue eyes shining with love, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “I can understand why she wouldn’t want to remember that.”

Dean grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

Sam laughed airily.

Forgetting about the what ifs of life, you dove back into the angel’s warm embrace, humming contentment. Saving people, hunting things, the meaningful relationships cemented along the way – you never dared to hope you could be so lucky.

[mountphoenixrp]

We have a new citizen in Mount Phoenix:

                             Raijin, the God of Lightning, Thunder and Storms,                                             whose origins stem from Ancient Japan.                                             He is now a member of the city council.

FC NAME/GROUP: Matsuyama Kenichi; Actor GOD NAME: Raiden/Raijin PANTHEON: Japanese OCCUPATION: Council Member. HEIGHT: 5′11″ WEIGHT: about 150lbs, give or take DEFINING FEATURES: He has several white-ink tattoos that resemble lightning, spreading over his shoulder blades, shoulders, and his upper arms to his elbows as well as down his spine. He sometimes wears a red mask representing his Oni (demon) form, as well as as the straw hat and robes attributed to his feudal era humanoid form, while wandering the forest with the demon wolf Raiju, his companion; he’s a bit of a traditionalist.

PERSONALITY:                     Raiden seems outwardly calm and collected, very reasonable and level-headed in contrast to the tumultuous temperament he’s known for…at least in Council meetings. Really, it’s just a product of age; he’s just learned how to compose himself when it’s necessary to make a decent impression…or assure that things happen the way hso. He’s manipulative, but not usually maliciously so…at least not often.                      The old stormy temper he’s known for is in fact there. He has little patience for inane questions and small talk, and he’s quick to bluntly tells someone when they’re being a damn idiot. He is not one to suffer fools, and there are times when he loses his temper so dramatically that a storm will roll in overhead or lightning will randomly strike a tree. Doesn’t even have to be a tree that is nearby.                      He does have his fun-loving side, though, and like most Japanese deities and spirits he’s known to cause mischief and general chaos when the mood strikes. He enjoys dancing at clubs, which can be an amusing sight considering he’ll be dancing like a pro but his expression will be completely unreadable. His sense of humor runs to the deadpan and the sarcastic more often than not, and he tends to have a lot of inside jokes with himself that he often forgets to explain to others and just laughs on his own.                      As a father…well, like most deities he’s likely to miss all your softball games and not bat an eye, but he’ll be one of the first to break someone’s nose (or worse) for even just talking shit about one of his kids. Pray for your soul if you happen to actually hurt one of them, physically or otherwise. He has effectively kept an ongoing war of two going for thousands of years with his own brother, just imagine what he’d do to someone not in the family.

HISTORY:                     One of the elder Shinto gods born of Izanagi and Izanami, the gods responsible for the creation of Japan, Raiden was tasked with protecting Japan alongside his brother Fujin, the god of winds and typhoons. Raiden came into being following the death of Izanami, who had perished birthing the fire god. After Izanagi had gone to the Underworld to find Izanami, then fled at her now hellish visage against her will, Raiden was one of several spirits that she sent after Izanagi to retrieve him.                      Following the births of Amaratsu, Tsukiyomi, and Susano-o, Raiden mostly kept to himself and his duties, until his rivalry with his brother Fujin came to a head. The two have since continuously fought for lordship over the skies, resulting in typhoons and hurricanes that plague Japan to the modern era. One would think they would be willing to work together, but the bitterness between them apparently runs so deep that they will sometimes shirk their protection duties in favor of attacking one another on sight.                      Why? Good question.                      There is a great deal of speculation among the family as to why Raiden and Fujin just seem to piss one another off by being in general proximity to one another, from rational and reasonable theories involving an unforgivable act at the hands of one or the other, to something as childish as “this is my side, you stay on your side”. If he was being honest, even Raiden isn’t really sure anymore why the fighting continues, but it does. His brother literally brings out the worst in him.                      Following the great storms that turned away the invading Mongols in the 1200s, the two brothers constantly argued over who was responsible and who deserved the lion’s share of the credit. Each fight would result in bigger and bigger storms, to the point they were damaging the home they were meant to protect. Over time, the two agreed to only meet at certain points in the year to duel, which is what would become known as monsoon season.                      After the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Raiden began to take a more proactive approach when it came to humanity, at least for a time. Taking human form, he went down to the islands to help with tending to survivors and the wounded; he had fully intended to join the war himself, and to a degree he was able to here and there under the guise of doing his job (as with the Mongols) but he was forbidden from traveling away from the islands to attack the enemy directly, which caused him endless frustration. Over 100,000 people dead, and he was unable to avenge them fully. After that, he found himself at ground level more and more frequently, experiencing humanity first hand rather than from a distance. He had his own little whirlwind romances, had children, even wrote a book or two. He would stay for a year or so, maybe two, returning for his yearly meetings with his brother, before tiring of the inane, monotonous lives of humans and returning to the skies.                      But, like all gods and oni, Raiden gets bored. That boredom and capricious nature is part of what led him to Mt. Phoenix. The old gods, while still important in Japan, were fading with the times, and he simply sought a way to feel important again. Relevant. Maybe meet some of his kids and hope they don’t try to throw lightning in his face? Though his decision to join the Council was initially a random whim, he seems to have found at least a semi-comfortable place among the other gods involved (even if he doesn’t necessarily like them all). While it may seem a bit selfish, he enjoys having his voice and opinions heard and taken into consideration, and as such manages to offer rather reasonable ideas and commentary; feeding his ego turns him into a tamer, more reasonable creature. Who knew?                      After several months away from the island due to “family business”, Raiden has returned with Raiju in tow to resume his duties with the Council.

POWERS: Raiden has the ability to summon storms on a whim (usually in anger), as well as control various individual aspects of these storms such as summoning a light rain or a small raincloud in a controlled area (for watering plants, putting out fires, or raining on someone’s parade), using controlled winds to allow for short-distance flight and hovering/slowing his descent from a fall or jump (he can’t use winds for much else seeing as that is his brother’s area and not his own), and summoning a lightning strike from the sky or creating and directing a jolt of lightning from his hands. Generally he’s used his abilites strictly for combat in the past, but in more modern times he’s started determining ways to use them in more practical, mundane ways; more than once he’s given a young human’s car battery a jolt to allow them to get home safely, or helped a farmer water their crops during a drought by summoning rain. He has also kept the lightning beast Raiju with him in the form of an oversized wolf (his size varies from normal wolf sized to large enough to ride on the back of); the companionship of a familiar being helps to keep him grounded.

STRENGTHS: Goal-oriented and organized when he needs to be, which are useful traits when it comes to working with a committee. He’s loyal almost to a fault when it comes to those he deems “friends”, whether they want him as a friend or not; even if you don’t realize Raiden considers you a friend, should you be in trouble he’ll be one of the first to swoop in and help. In some ways he’s a traditionalist and he values honor and when he makes a promise he keeps it. WEAKNESSES: He does have a bit of a short fuse, even if it has calmed a bit with age, and he’s been known to hold a grudge as strong as any of the rest of the Japanese pantheon. As with the storms he summons, his manner is somewhat chaotic, goals shifting on a whim if things aren’t going his way or he gets bored. He doesn’t always follow rules to a T, preferring to follow his own code or bend the supplied rules; in D&D terms (a game he actually played in the 90s) he’s the definition of True Neutral, and this can be a problem when it comes to being in charge of, well…anything. At times he completely lacks motivation, preferring to just do “everything”, “whatever”, or worse “nothing”.

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tag drop.  

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