#perdition woods

[aerialworms-art]

Happy Birthday to the one and only!!!!!!

Painted this last year, added the text today! His wings are actually glittery acrylic, the majority is acrylic gouache. I had a lot of fun doing the wood texture on the barn and the feathers on the wings!

(ID under cut)

[ID: A photograph of a painting of Castiel from Supernatural.

It is a repaint of the scene from S4 E1 Lazarus Rising where he shows off his wings to Dean inside the barn. His eyes are glowing, his coat and tie are fluttering in the wind, and his blue-black, shiny wings are reaching up and out into the white border surrounding the painting. Scratchy digital text reads "I'M THE ONE WHO GRIPPED YOU TIGHT AND RAISED YOU FROM PERDITION" overlaid and distorted so that it runs over the ceiling, his wings, his chest, and the walls behind him.

At the bottom it is signed "AERIALWORMS". /End ID]

[arcane-vagabond]

Road To Perdition: Prologue

Road to Perdition: Prologue

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: The Great Depression wasn't called a depression for nothing. Jobs were scarce, and the price of food and other necessities were rising higher and higher with each passing day. What little money you were able to make went straight to the bank and out of reach from your booze-swilling lech of a brother. It's on one such run that you come face to face with members of the infamous Dagger Gang; a group of, admittedly handsome, men who steal from the banks to hand it back out to the poor. You want nothing to do with them, but that blond-headed devil might just have something to say to the contrary. (1930s!Mobster!AU)

Content Warning: Mentions of alcohol, Allusions to alcoholism, Death of parents, Pessimism, Historical Inaccuracies probably. I think that's it, but please let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: Just under 1.2k

Series Masterlist

Light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting shadows across the walls as your eyes slowly fluttered open. There was a stillness in the air that was all too familiar for those that lived as far out of the city as you did, nestled in the trees that scattered the farmland surrounding your home. You heard the shrill chirping of the birds as you adjusted back to life in the waking world, stretching with a grunt as you glanced over at the clock sitting on your nightstand.

It was still early, something you both lamented and thanked the lord for. You had things to do today, things that would require you to sneak past your brother who had undoubtedly passed out on the couch once more after a night of drinking himself silly. He had been like that before your parents passed, one of the many things he and your father had in common.

It had been only a couple of years since your father died, leaving your brother his illegal business of moonshining - a business you had been a part of at one point before finding other means of making money. Your father hadn’t been too keen on the idea at first, always commenting on how you seemed to have a special touch with the liquor, earning you your nickname of Moonshine or Moonie for short.

He had accepted it in stride, though. Especially when he saw the amount of your first earnings as a part-time photographer for the local paper. The camera had been a gift from a family friend, having purchased it for his son who quickly let it fall to the wayside as other pursuits caught his interests.

“Shouldn’t go to waste,” he had said, handing it to you with a small smile on his usually stern face. “Here, Moonie. You should have it.”

You had felt wrong taking it at first, but the feeling quickly left you once you held your first photo in your hand, your brother having saved up enough to set up a makeshift room for you to develop them in. That was before he started sampling his own product, of course.

“These are really good, Moonie!” Jack had grinned as he held a particularly stunning shot of a doe you had encountered in the back field one morning. She had turned to face you, and that’s when you had taken the shot, just before she ran back into the safety of the woods. You were particularly proud of that shot, but you ducked your head down in humility.

“They’re not that good,” you mumbled shyly.

You smiled wistfully at the memory before letting out a sigh as you pulled yourself up out of the comfort of your bed. You were quick to tidy up, fluffing the pillows before marching down the hall towards the bathroom. The sound of snoring echoed from your brother’s room, and you snorted in surprise at the change, but continued on.

After relieving yourself, you washed up, grimacing at your reflection in the mirror. Most girls your age had a whole counter full of makeup, but you simply couldn’t see the need for it, or justify it for that matter. No, you were saving up what little you could to make your escape. You weren’t sure where you’d go yet. New York perhaps? You’d heard there was always an opportunity for someone there. The thought of making your way in the growing city sent your stomach fluttering, and you clapped your hands against your cheeks to settle your mind.

There was no time for daydreaming. You had to focus on the task at hand. You were able to squirrel some of your earnings away from your brother’s greedy hands, and you made weekly deposits into a private bank account. People had been weary of the banks since the crash a few years back, but you trusted them more than your snooping older brother. Work had been hard for people to come by, but people were always looking for a photographer. So for now, non-essentials like makeup would have to wait.

You dressed quickly, double checking to make sure your camera was tucked away in your messenger back alongside your rainy day fund, and set out only to stop short at the sight of the living room.

Bottles were strewn all about the place along with cards scattered alongside them. Letting out a heavy sigh, you dropped your bag down onto one of the chairs as you set about cleaning the place up. You were surprised that the noise of what was surely many men hadn’t woken you up. You had had a long day, though. The fresh wad of bills sitting in your bag proof of that.

The bottles clanked together as you gathered up as many as you could, taking them out to be washed later. Coming back inside, you glanced over to observe the state of the kitchen, the sight having a growl leaving your throat before you could stop it. Plates were stacked high in the sink, and you knew you’d have to take care of them now lest they stink up the place for the rest of the day. The last thing you needed to deal with was unwanted pests in your home.

You actually enjoyed doing the dishes, if you were being honest. It was time to let your mind wander, plotting your way out without being disturbed. No one wanted to be drawn in to helping, of course. So you washed and scrubbed in silence as the noise outside picked up with the late morning. You wouldn’t get to the bank until this afternoon, at this rate. That left little time to go snooping for your next lead, which left you more irritated than before.

You drained the sink once you were done, wiping your hands with the dishcloth with a grimace. You’d have to do laundry tomorrow. Another chore left for you to take care of.

Perhaps you wouldn’t be so quick to want to leave if it wasn’t only you holding this place together. Your brother had been your rock once upon a time, but then your mother had passed due to illness and your father followed her not long after. Of course, you had been devastated, but you took it upon yourself to be the strong one after Jack fell apart. He started drinking then. It had only been one here or there, but it quickly grew into several bottles a night, and no amount of begging would get him to stop. So you quit trying.

It had come to a head only a year ago when you came home early to find your room tossed upside down, anything of value missing along with Jack. It was a week before he came home.

You had learned your lesson, and now you bided your time until you could withdraw your money and make a break for it. The sun shone down on you as you began the trek into town, dreaming of the day you would make this journey for the last time.

A/N: Just something to tide you guys over until I can formulate the next chapters of By Its Cover and Fool's Fare. I'm excited for this one though!

If you would like to receive notifications on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @sailoraviator-library ) and turn on post notifications! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. You can find all of my works on AO3 under the username sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[gravehags]

⛧⚸ gravehags' writing ⚸⛧

GHOST

sundress season - mary goore x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

synchronicity - cardinal copia x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

fever for the fire - cumulus x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

i must confess to you (i want to possess you) - cumulus x f!reader, prequel to fever for the fire, NSFW, MDNI

to taste your beating heart - cirrus x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

sweetest submission - dewdrop x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

untitled - cardinal copia x gn!reader

this hell (is better with you) - ghoulettes x afab!reader

worship this love - cumulus x f!reader

meet me in the woods - cirrus x f!reader, regency au, NSFW, MDNI

dream (a little dream of me) - aether x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

feel you from the inside - dewdrop x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

i'd be your mistress (just to have you around) - cardinal copia x f!reader

the potential of you and me - phantom x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

whatever she wants (whatever you want) - cumulus x f!reader (x cirrus, sort of), NSFW, MDNI

your sin, your preacher - papa emeritus ii x f!reader, NSFW, MDNI

give me mercy no more - cardinal copia x f!reader x cumulus, NSFW, MDNI

smitten by the blackest force - mary goore x f!reader (witch!reader), NSFW, MDNI

📚 CURATOR!READER (non-chronological series) 📚

dreadful need in the devotee - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

can't find you in the dark - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

unraveling a stitch - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

you send me - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

something so precious - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

i am the heart that you call home - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

every day is halloween - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

take me apart - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

traduzione - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

satan baby - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

unholy, unholy, unholy - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

falling so badly (i'm coming apart) - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

crimson headache, aching blush - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

let the devil in - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

destroying all (and make them want it again) - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

the one who comes (richly endowed) - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

kingdoms to fall one by one - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

son of perdition - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

all vacant and waste - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

desinare - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

enter lydia - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

the fabric of your flesh - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), cirrus x reader x cumulus, NSFW, MDNI

at the altar of venus - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader), NSFW, MDNI

his mother’s blood - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

hold me now - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

it’s close to midnight - cardinal copia x f!reader (curator!reader)

✨ BONUS ✨ - curator!reader x cardinal copia playlist

🌙 GHOUL BICYCLE SERIES 🌙

heaven in hiding - swiss x f!reader (virgin!reader) , NSFW, MDNI

the undone and the divine - swiss x f!reader, sequel to heaven in hiding, part two in the ghoul bicycle series. NSFW, MDNI

ain't it a gentle sound - dewdrop x f!reader, part three in the ghoul bicycle series (part i, part ii), NSFW, MDNI

waiting for you only - cumulus x f!reader, part four in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

our little remedy - aether x f!reader x mountain, part five in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

separated by a degree - cirrus x f!reader, part six in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

naked in that garden - rain x f!reader, part seven in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

feathers in our bed - transfem!sunshine x f!reader, part eight in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

some know it lovingly - phantom x f!reader, part nine in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

my blood is singing with your voice - aurora x f!reader, part ten in the ghoul bicycle series, NSFW, MDNI

the burn between our hearts - ghouls/ghoulettes x f!reader, final part in the ghoul bicycle series

💥 bonus 💥

dance of the seven veils - aether x f!reader, extension of the ghoul bicycle series

hot to go - cirrus x f!reader, extension of the ghoul bicycle series

my love mine all mine - cumulus x f!reader, extension of the ghoul bicycle series

what the water gave me - rain x f!reader, extension of the ghoul bicycle series

pray it all away (but it continues to grow) - dewdrop x f!reader, extension of the ghoul bicycle series

cumulus x ghoul bicycle reader (x cirrus x sunshine x aurora)

swiss x ghoul bicycle reader x aurora

phantom x ghoul bicycle reader

ghoul bicycle pack x reader with a tummy ache

aether and dew spitroasting ghoul bicycle reader

ghoul bicycle series group first date

ghoul bicycle series bonus post part 1

mini fics/prompts

cumulus x f!reader x cardinal copia - NSFW, MDNI

mountain x ghoulettes - NSFW, MDNI

cirrus x f!reader - NSFW, MDNI

cardinal copia x sister of sin!reader (part 1, part 2) - NSFW, MDNI

ghoulettes with an inexperienced reader - NSFW, MDNI

phantom x f!reader (x mountain) - NSFW, MDNI

ghouls/ghoulettes and bloodlust - NSFW, MDNI

ghouls/ghoulettes handling your depressive episode

🪦🪦🪦

ao3 profile

ko-fi page

🩸🩸🩸

thank you everyone for your continued support in letting me get both my nasty AND tender fantasies out. love you xoxo.

[akindofmagictoo]

DRAGONSONG: draft 2 update: 14/09

previous word count: 106,694

current word count: 107,466 (772 added)

notes: still chipping away :)

snippet:

“We should barricade the tower door,” said Sierra. She held an armful of quarterstaffs and spears, clearly taken from the dead knights around them. “It might buy us some time.” “That door opens inwards,” said Meg. “And no one designs a tower that lets your enemies lock you in.” “Well, what about where they got in in the first place?” said Caleb. His arm had been bandaged, and though he looked nervous, he seemed steady on his feet. “The back door, if you like.” Sierra shook her head. “That door’s splinters and sawdust. No point.” Isi swallowed. “Meg, take Caleb to the right tower. It should still be ours.” “And just hope no one else follows us through here?” said Meg. It was Caleb who said, “Yes.” His eyes were fixed directly on Isi. Hope will keep me fighting, whispered Isi’s own voice in her mind. “If it becomes a problem, then we can deal with it then,” Caleb continued. “But there is nothing we can do now.” “Hope isn’t gonna stop them.” Sierra dropped her collected wood with a clatter. Caleb shook his head. “If they decide to come, hope won’t stop them. But we don’t know that they’ll come. And no matter what they throw at us, if we give up hope, we will die.” A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “As a wise woman once said to me, hope will keep us fighting.” He was right. Isi knew he was right; she had said it to him first, after all. Earlier that day, it might have stirred something with in her. But here and now, with her hands slick with blood and her shoulders weighed down by death, she was too cold and numb to agree.

TAGLIST

@isherwoodj @metanoiamorii @lilmissravingwriter @weekofwednesdays @the-unwrittenwriter

@talesofsorrowandofruin @little-boats-on-a-lake @teriwrites @magicalwriting @magic-is-something-we-create

@writingbyjillian @waysofink @perditism @thehellinsideyourhead @calicowrites

@vellichor-virgo @google-plexed @therecouldbecolorsandlove @the-orangeauthor @ellatholmes

@happyorogeny @ladywithalamp @ashen-crest @authortango @strangerays

@moononherwings @nikkywrites @ambersky0319 @ambsthom @talesfromgringolandia

@wickerring @wizardfromthesea @diphthongsfordays @e-lisard @enchanted-lightning-aes

@emscribblings @teardropsandtherain @lowslore @fablewritten @copper-dragon-in-disguise

@reneesbooks @dirtybarkshark

[hotspurpercy]

BETA READERS CALL !

do you like horror, polyamory and the tense of atmosphere of small towns? then i have good news for you: i'm looking for an unlimited number of beta readers for my 98k words novel, a strange kind of hunger.

SYNOPSIS —

1853. sweetwater, massachusetts, swallows people whole. dr. jonathan fallow thought he escaped its grip four years ago, but he finds himself back in its clutches, as winter creeps in.

sweetwater swallows people whole, but it seems to be in the maw of something else. tracks in the forest; mutilated cattle; a howling chorus. the townsfolk are quick to cry devil, encouraged by their firebrand pastor, gabriel goodwin. jonathan is determined to prove that the creatures lurking in the woods are wolves, nothing more — but a night vigil and a glimpse of something horrifying force him to reconsider.

to expose the rotting heart of the village, he’ll have to form an alliance with a faceless traveller, a disgraced former surgeon — and the pastor’s beautiful younger brother.

( trigger/content warnings: gore, body horror, familial abuse (largely off-page), religious abuse/trauma. a more in-depth list of warnings for each chapter will be available on request )

HOW THIS WILL WORK —

if you're interested in beta reading, DM me here (@wifewulf) or on discord (@/hotspurpercy) to let me know.

beta readers will have until the 30th of september to finish ASKOH. unless you're a mutual, please don't sign up unless you know you can finish it by then

beta readers will get access to a private discord server where you can read ASKOH and give feedback, as well as get some bonus short stories and art pieces from me!

there's currently no limit on the number of beta readers i'm looking for. however, if a lot of people sign up, i may prioritise mutuals and readers of colour

( + TAGLIST UNDER THE CUT ! )

@villaneve / @vandorens-archive / @nallthatjazz / @starshots-blog1 / @cannivalisms / @perditism / @spillme / @upoffringar / @thelittlestspider / @wildswrites / @brownpaperhag / @akoumi / @quilloftheclouds / @absolute-nonsense-scribblings / @birdywrote / @tiredlittleoldme / @strangerays / @ninazeniks / @authortango / @aetherwrites / @caravagest / @chazzawrites / @anavkour / @videsnoir / @karamel-pop / @philocalizt / @cryptidsandqueers / @stephwriteswords / @muddshadow

[dontlikeconflict]

Based on S11EP13 Love Hurts (in which a supernatural creature called a Qareen appears to you as the person you desire the most, in an attempt to steal your heart)

TW: internalized homophobia, derogatory terms, John Winchester being a shitty dad

AO3 link

Dean's ready for it, he knows the bastard is around here somewhere and all he has to do is find it and kill it (or at least hold it off until Sam finds its heart, and stabs the damn thing)

He and Sam had been theorizing over who it might appear to them as, joking over childhood crushes and celebrities, but as the creature came into sight Dean's heart sunk. Some part of him knew who it would be, but he thought maybe if he didn't allow the thought to take hold -if he kept the idea in his peripheral vision, not looking directly at it- that it wouldn't be true.

but now the manifestation of his desire was staring directly at him, and it couldn't be ignored.

"Hello Dean"

The gravelly voice sounded the same as it had a hundred times before. The downward tilt to the corner of his eyes was the same, as was the slight skew to his blue tie. It was exactly as he saw Cas, in his mind's eye.

"oh don't try to be cute, I know exactly what you are Qareen"

He didn't want to have to try to kill this thing as it flawlessly imitated Cas, but at his words, the creature allowed its head to softly tilt to the side and his - its - eyes to slightly narrow. An expression that was so painfully Cas, that Dean was torn between pain and anger.

"I understand, Dean" the creature speaks, stepping slightly closer to the large work table that separates them

"is that right?" he responds, trying to focus on anything other than how much this thing looks like Cas, having to remind himself that it was an illusion, despite the tight feeling in his chest that always seemed to respond to the other man's micro-expressions.

The creature continued forward toward him "The longing in your heart? I feel it too"

If only the circumstances had been different, if only this was Cas, the words might have felt like a relief instead of so painfully raw.

"well that's touching" Dean began, as he tried to subtly move toward a knife wedged into the wood of the workbench "considering you don't have a heart. Considering... you're not Cas"

Dean didnt know if he was saying it aloud for the creature, or just to reassure himself. So that when he inevitably plunged a knife into this thing, he would know the expression of pain didn't truly belong to his friend.

"who I am doesn't matter" A small smile graced Cas' lips " The real question, is who are you?" Cas' eyes looked at Dean the way they had so many times like he was trying to understand him; like he thought if he stared long enough he could unravel the enigma that was Dean Winchester.

"what do you mean, who am I?" Dean trying to inch toward the knife, but the Qareen was tracing his movements

"You're a mystery. I can see inside your heart" They are both moving in sync, both so aware of the other " Feel the love you feel"

the use of that word causes Dean to stop in his tracks, and the creature stops with him "Except, its cloaked in shame"

and that's it isn't it? what it's all about. Dean has never been one to shy away from romantic feelings. Whereas one could describe him as emotionally constipated in almost every other area, romance had always been the easiest one, and even if he got turned down it never really affected how he approached potential partners.

But Cas was different. For starters he wasn't human, a factor he had gotten over a while ago but something that at the beginning had always been in the back of his mind. Back when Cas still spoke like an angel, 'raising him from perdition' and then subsequently threatening to throw him straight back to it. But it had been a long time since that mattered, a long time since he viewed Cas as Other in that way. and yet there was something so trivial yet so big that held him back. Cas was a man, his vessel was at least. And no matter how many people he meets, how much he grows and changes, his father is always there.

Throw away comments about 'pansys' and 'queers' and much harsher words that Dean doesn't even like to think. He can still remember his father watching the news and tutting at why "they have to go and get married, why can't they just stop shoving it in everyone's faces".

It felt wrong even back then, and Dean knows his father was wrong. Knows that even though he loves him, that he was an asshole on his best days. But the idea of people looking at him and thinking all those horrible things, the knowledge of what his father would think of him if he could see him now, always held him back.

When he spent too long looking into Cas' eyes, when Cas touched him and he felt himself light up, when he said something that sounded slightly too affectionate, he would feel his father's shame like a weight dropping down onto him.

He knew that he and Cas had something, that they shared a "more profound bond", as the angel had put it. But he could never get past the shame that lurked within him.

"when it comes to this" the creature continued, looking down at the shape it had taken, lifting a hand to Cas' chest and rubbing across it "You can't help yourself, so why fight it?"

To hear these words in Cas' voice; it was almost too much.

The creature was stalking its way forward "Just give in"

Ah, see that was just enough. That was so unlike Cas, to ask him to give in to anything, to not kick and fight the whole way as he always did, that it knocked Dean's mind out of its self-loathing and allowed him to act, to plan.

"yeah, you know what? You're right" suddenly feeling more confident that this was just another monster, just another hunt

"The real Cas, he does have a hold over me" It was the closest he had even come to admitting what it really was "but you... are nothing but a cheap imitation"

the creature was almost close enough to rip his heart from his chest, so he acted and did the first thing he could think of. He picked up a metal table to the side of him, holding it up like a shield just before the creature's hand burst right through the metal as if it were paper.

funnily enough, this felt more like Cas than the creature had been before, reminding Dean of when they first knew each other and Cas would constantly startle Dean with effortless strength. Holding a pipe Bobby swung directly for his head or lifting an entire anvil up as if he were holding a pillow.

Dean was taken out of his musings by the threat of losing his head as the creature pulled its arm free and he had to leap away rolling over the top of the workbench, just before the Qareen's hand went right through the thick wood. The way it moved was very stiff, not very artful, clearly not used to having to work physically for its food, used to victims presenting themselves eagerly for the face of their desires.

Then Dean's eyes caught on the knife he had been inching toward earlier, and he made a grab for it swinging haphazardly for the imitation of Cas' face, only to have his hand grabbed firmly, the creature squeezing at his arm until he was forced to relinquish the blade.

He was then shoved against the wall, held in place by Cas' large hand at his shoulder, the other raising, ready to push through layers of skin, muscle, and bone, to rip his heart straight from his body. Dean had no time to be scared, but if he had time to reflect he would have thought that dying to Cas' hands wouldn't be the worst way he could go.

but then it all stopped, the creature froze before stumbling back. Cas' face twisted in pain as it began to shake and scream before the body began to dissolve into smoke, and it all collapsed into a central blue light, almost like a star.

and then it was gone. And Sam was calling his name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not much had been said on the ride back to their motel, mostly focusing on cleaning up their mess, and driving home the victim. But now they were packing up their few things into duffel bags, getting ready to drive back to the bunker.

As Dean was shoving clothes unfolded into his bag, Sam's voice came from behind him "So you gonna keep me in suspense here or what?"

Dean continued to pack, hoping Sam wasnt asking what he thought "About what?"

"Who was it?" Sam was prying, he seemed casual about it, still moving between the bed and his bag as he grabbed and folded each item

"it, uh" Dean began to speak before he even knew what he was going to say. The truth? Or some half-baked lie about Daisy Duke batting her eyelashes at him before she lunged for his heart? but a calm almost washed over him as he allowed himself to be honest.

"it was Cas."

"huh." the was a pause where Dean felt like he truly could throw up "Does that surprise you?"

all his fear turned incredulous "That doesnt surprise you?"

For a moment the shame from his father came back, and the idea that something about him looked gay came into his mind. What if everyone knew? like it was something they could just tell about him. But Dean had to mentally remind himself that this was Sam, that his Dad was a bigot, that his dad hadn't been around to judge him for a long time now.

"Honestly?" Sam said, as if his answer was obvious

"Honestly." Dean parroted, his defensive nature rising up "What you seriously think Cas, the poor excuse for an angel that dresses like an accountant, is my deepest desire?"

it felt wrong to deflect, to be hurtful about Cas just because he was afraid, but the words just fell out.

"he isn't?" Sam responded simply

"No!" Dean's voice pitched up at the end of the syllable, and it sounded like a lie, even to his ears. "He cant be."

"why not?" the blunt way Sam was addressing him wasn't helping the rising panic in his chest

"Why? Because that means I'm-" The words get stuck, he can't say them, especially when he knows how he'll sound as they come out of his mouth. The Qareen was right, he's still ashamed.

"what Dean?" Sam's voice is soft, like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking, like he wants to say it for him so he doesn't have too

But Dean has to be the one to say it, he knows this. He attempts to steel his expression, but as the words come out he knows he sounds afraid "It would mean I'm - " Queer, a pansy, an embarrassment "Gay"

Even though they both knew what he was going to say, Sam's face changes to one of soft surprise "Dean, Did you honestly think that something like that would matter to me?"

Dean didnt know what to say. Logically he knew it wouldn't, but some part of him felt like it would somehow make him less of Sam's tough older brother, like somehow he would be letting him down, as irrational as it sounded

Sam took Dean's silence as a sign to continue "Look I know Dad had some stupid ideas about this kind of thing, but you gotta know that he was an idiot"

some old part of Dean wanted to get annoyed at Sam for speaking out against their father, for disgracing his memory, but the feeling wasn't strong enough for him to act on right now.

"you need to know that... you and Cas" his little brother, so smart seemed like he had no idea how to put his thoughts into words "it would be okay"

the words Sam settled on were simple but it felt like such sweet relief, because really that was all Dean wanted. For how he felt to be okay. To not feel like he was wrong every time he let his guard down. every time he let himself want. He didnt quite feel like he was okay, but hearing the words from Sam made him feel a hell of a lot closer to believing.

"Thanks, Sammy" Maybe in another world he could have teared up at a time like this and told his brother how much his acceptance meant to him. But for now, all he could do was give his beanpole of a brother a strong slap on the arm and say "Let's go home", home to where Cas is.

Part two

[banshee1013]

Suptober / Flufftober Day 4 - The Flames and the Light

Waaaaay behind but still plugging away at this thing and this thing.

Prompts: Suptober: Nimbus Flufftober: Cinderella Moment

Today's installment is below and on AO3, and also added to the series October Days (and Nights).

Title: The Flames and the Light Rating: Teen Warnings: No Warnings Apply  Tags: Men of Letters Bunker, Winchester House Fire, Dean Winchester in Hell, Dean Winchester is Saved, Righteous Man Dean Winchester, Visions, Memories Summary: Hester had said, “When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” She claimed the touch of Dean’s soul had corrupted him.

She was partly correct: touching Dean’s soul, bright and warm in a place that was so sullen and cold, changed him; but it wasn’t corruption.

It was love. Words: 603 AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50938690

==============================

“Hey, Sunshine, there you are.” Dean’s voice projects over his shoulder, his back to Castiel as he crouches by the hearth of the fireplace in the Bunker’s library. Castiel can hear the soft swish of the brush as Dean sweeps the spent ashes of a previous fire into a dustpan.

The back of Dean’s head inclines toward the two plushy upholstered chairs opposite the fireplace, lit by a small hurricane lamp on the small table between them. The flickering flame within sparkles on the crystal decanter filled with what Castiel knows is Dean’s favorite whiskey, accompanied by two matching glasses. 

“Just need to clean this up before laying a new fire. Don’t want to burn the place down or anything.”

Castiel begins to take a seat as requested when Dean rises from his crouch and turns to beam a smile at him. He wipes the back of his hand across his cheek, leaving a trail of soot…

And Castiel is struck still as an image arises in his mind…

A dark street, lit only by flashing red and blue lights and a dim yellow glow. A small boy sitting on the hood of a large black car, his arms overfilled with a small, wimpering bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. The lights flicker across cheeks ashen with shock and residue from the flames that consumed his family home and set him on his path. 

Castiel blinks, reality returning with a metallic clatter as Dean empties the ashes into the bin by the hearth and turns, his arms filled with firewood. He sets the wood on the metal grate inside the firebox, reaches for the box of fireplace matches on the mantle and strikes one. The bright yellow-blue flash as the match catches turning to red-gold and sparking off the highlights in Dean’s hair as he applies it to the kindling. Yellow orange flames flick as the kindling catches and licks the dark wood bark, turning it gold and then red as the flames climb.

Dean rises and rubs his hands over the flames, cinders rising around him before being swept up into the flue like dying stars. 

Another image arises in Castiel’s mind, unbidden…

He and his brethren, their armor shining sullen red and burnt gold from the fires of Hell even through the smoke and haze — but their goal was something which shone brighter still. The Righteous Man, the nimbus of his glowing soul cutting through the smoke like a beacon. Castiel both curses the necessity of their rescue, but relishes being the first to reach him, the first to touch that shining soul with his Grace, the one to grip him and raise him from Perdition. 

Hester had said, “When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost!” She claimed the touch of Dean’s soul had corrupted him. 

She was partly correct: touching Dean’s soul, bright and warm in a place that was so sullen and cold, changed him; but it wasn’t corruption.

It was love. 

He’s pulled from the vision by Dean’s solid, firm grip on his shoulders, his warmth flowing onto Castiel’s skin like sun-warmed honey. 

“Hey, Cas.” Castiel blinks and finds himself staring into green eyes sparking gold from the firelight. “Everything okay?”

Castiel’s hand rises to touch Dean’s cheek, brushes against the solid, warm skin there.

He had to make sure — the light of Dean’s soul still so bright, so warm, Castiel couldn’t be sure he wasn’t still locked in his vision.

“Perfect.”

Dean huffs a soft chuckle as he pulls Castiel to his chest, wrapping him in light and love. 

“Yeah, you are.” 

[drarryspecificrecs]

Lights Camera Drarry 2022 : (fics only)

@lcdrarry​ || official masterpost || AO3 || ∑ = 43 works (art, fic, podfic) The Mods : @celilasart​ & @erin-riwen Banner © :

@kairennart's feels like the most important thing in the whole world Young Royals series (2021~)

@sator-the-wanderer's Glowing like a star Stardust (2007)

---

Believe: The Gentlemage's Game by @goblinmatriarch [E, 27k] Ted Lasso series (2020~)

catch a falling star by @flintandfuss [E, 27k] Stardust (2007)

Draco's First Holiday by @resilientkitteh [E, 26k] The Holiday (2006)

embrace the deception by @swoontodeath [M, 13k] Psych series (2006~2014)

Englishman Extraordinaire by @bluesundaycake [E, 45k] Falling Inn Love (2019)

Forever and Always by @minty-petals [M, 3k] Brooklyn Nine-Nine series (2013~2021)

Goodnight, and Have a Pleasant Tomorrow by @phoebe-delia [T, 1k] Saturday Night Live TV show (1975~)

Havin' a Good Time by @bunnimew [T, 4k]   *restricted Shaun of the Dead (2004)

How To Train Your Werewolf by @cluelesspigeons [M, 15k] How to Train Your Dragon (2010)

I have not yet forgot myself to stone. by @elskanellis [T, 3k] Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

i'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones by @devilrising [T, 10k] Merlin series (2008~2012)

In the Bleak Midwinter by @the-fools-errand [E, 105k] Peaky Blinders series (2013~2022)

little fools by @starlightspark [T, 2k] The Great Gatsby (2013)

May the odds be ever in their favor by @nelweensfic [T, 6k] Hunger Games: Catching Fire (2013)

Murder For You by @rei382 [M, 30k] Lucifer series (2016~2021)

My Big Fat Weasley Wedding by @slyth-princess [M, 65k]   *restricted My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002)

Once Upon a Walk in the Woods by @assassinsdragons [T, 15k] Sleeping Beauty (1959)

Our Time by @m0srael [E, 39k] Arrival (2016)

Perdition by @makeitp1nk [E, 21k] Constantine (2005)

The Pirc Defence by @sleepstxtic [E, 10k] The Queen’s Gambit series (2020)

Plausible Deniability by Bearixt [T, 10k] White Collar series (2009~2014)

Prince of Starlight by @quackquackcey [E, 14k] Tangled (2010)

Purge by @gnarf [M, 8k] The Forever Purge (2021)

Recipe for Life by @drarrelie & @janieohio [E, 66k] --- ART by @marinelilp No Reservations (2007)

rumour has it by @epsilonargus [E, 8k] Merlin series (2008~2012)

Rush (For A Gap That Exists) by @sleepstxtic [M, 42k] Rush (2013)

Summer Place by @wolfpants [E, 14k] WandaVision series (2021)

To Be Loyal, Brave, and True by @purplehotmess [M, 41k] Mulan (1998)

Waiting for the hint of a spark by Pineau_noir [M, 14k] The Magnus Archives series (2016~2022)

Welcome! Everything is Fine. by @melociraptor [T, 12k] The Good Place serise (2016~2020)

Woke Up this Morning by @myrtlefics [T, 10k] Russian Doll serise (2019~)

—

✔ other fests in 2022 ✔ fests in other years ✔ Lights Camera Drarry : 2021 | 2020 | 2019

[kingedmundsroyalmurder]

Blue Castle Chapters 16 and 17

“It is a pity to gather wood-flowers. They lose half their witchery away from the green and the flicker. The way to enjoy wood-flowers is to track them down to their remote haunts—gloat over them—and then leave them with backward glances, taking with us only the beguiling memory of their grace and fragrance.”

I’m starting in the middle, but with how often Cissy gets compared to flowers in chapter 16 this quote seems particularly meaningful. It’s Valancy quoting John Foster, but it also feels like a comment on Cissy going into the wider world and being ruined by heartbreak and illness. More generally this story seems fairly firmly on the side of ‘nature and freedom good, repressive society bad’ and picking a wildflower to watch it die in a flower vase is a good summation of that theme.

And Valancy is blossoming herself now that she is away from the suffocation of her family. In their post on chapter 15 @thesweetnessofspring pointed out the irony in Mrs. Stirling saying that the greatest happiness was to live life in loving service of others and then proceeding to flip out when Valancy went to do just that. Because Valancy is indeed going out to provide a service to others, she is doing it with love in her heart, and she is wildly, blissfully happy doing so. We’re shown that it’s not just the freedom from her family that she likes. She enjoys keeping house. She enjoys cooking for the household. She enjoys helping Cissy and taking care of her and feeling needed.

There is a lot of people-as-gardens/plants symbolism in this book in general. And how both people and plants thrive when they’re given what they need and suffer when they’re not. Valancy’s rosebush is physically healthy under the Stirling’s care, but it doesn’t bloom, just as Valancy herself was fed and clothed and taken to the doctor as needed but spiritually crushed. Abel Gay’s garden was neat and well cared for when Cissy was well, but has been neglected since she stopped being able to care for it, just as Cissy herself has faded away once people stopped caring for her. People, like plants, need care but they need the right kind of care. Too much attention can be just as detrimental as too little, when it’s the wrong kind of attention.

The second running theme in these two chapters is, of course, that now that Valancy has gotten a taste of speaking her mind she is finding that she rather likes it. And, unlike the Stirlings, Abel Gay likes it when she does so. It’s not said openly, but I get the impression that Cissy also appreciates Valancy’s bluntness and sass. Ironically, the fact that the Stirlings so smothered and terrified Valancy probably contributed a great deal to the fact that no one courted her or asked to marry her. If she had been allowed to be anything other than meek and downtrodden, she might well have had a better social life and marital prospects, even if she’s not classically beautiful like Olive.

Unrelated side observation: Where did Valancy learn to cook? My understanding was that Mrs. Stirling did the cooking in their household. Did they actually trade off and take turns, or does Valancy just have a knack for it? Certainly she wouldn’t have learned to cook flavorful food at her mother’s house, so maybe she’s just good at it.

Second unrelated side observation: This is so far my vote for funniest line in the book: “ And I’m not going to have you tracking mud all over a floor I’ve just scrubbed. You must use the scraper whether you consign it to perdition or not.”

[paperandsong]

Le Follet d’Ep-Nell

From Légendes rustiques, illustrated by Maurice Sand, written by George Sand, 1858

Original French at Project Gutenberg

English translation:

Beneath the stone of Ep-Nell, a bad kind of follet is curled up. A follet with a tail: the worst of all. Instead of tending to the horses and walking them, they frighten the horses, mistreat them and wear them out.

Maurice SAND

Georgeon was the devil of the part of Berry called the Black Valley. I say was, because he is very much forgotten today and one would have to go back to the memory of old men, thirty years dead, to fish out from that river of oblivion - which passes so quickly today - the mysterious name that was never to be written, “not on paper, nor on wood, nor on slate, nor on any stone, nor on cloth, nor on earth, nor on dust or sand, nor even on snow fallen from the sky.” This terrible name, which presided over the most effective and most secret formulas, was only to be entrusted to the ears of the practitioners of sorcery, and telling them more than three times was not allowed. If they forgot, too bad for them. One had to pay to hear it again. 

This name was, under no circumstances, to be revealed to non-believers and must never be spoken aloud, except in the darkness of night and in complete solitude. The one who confided it to me had surprised himself and did not believe it. However, he regretted telling me and came back to beg me not to repeat it. “I had bad dreams last night,” he said. “Three times my window opened wide without anyone but myself having entered my room.”

What was Georgeon's rank and title in the hierarchy of evil spirits? That's what I could never find out. It was he who had to be called out to at crossroads, or under certain old trees of ill repute, to make the mysterious spirit appear. Did he have his own power over certain things in nature, or was he only an intermediary messenger between hell and its followers? I would believe it: a man named Georgeon had once been taken to Montgivray by the devil. It is perhaps the work of this evil soul to lead other souls to perdition.

Georgeon was semi-invisible, in the sense that he only appeared on moonless nights or through thick fog. One saw a human form larger than life; but the dress, the features, the details of this form always remained elusive, or so vague that it was impossible to remember him or to recognize him, even by voice, even after various encounters with him. Each time he had to be called by name, it had to be said: “Is it you with whom I spoke on this or that night and in such and such a place?” And if he didn't answer “It's me,” you had to be on guard and tell him nothing about what had happened during any previous encounters with the devil, either because Georgeon hid his identity to test the discretion and prudence of his followers, or that the peasant pushes prudence to the point of distrusting the devil, even after having turned himself over to him.

It is certain, at the very least, that the peasant claims to be as cunning as Satan and that in every country there are marvellous legends full of malice attributed to good guys who know how to fool the demon and catch him in his own traps. Among the best, we must cite that of the fairy-lover reported by the author of La Normandie merveilleuse, which has all the grace of rural language. The fairy fell in love with a beautiful country woman. Every evening, while she was spinning thread by the fire, he would come and sit on a stool at the other corner of the fireplace. The woman, having noticed his presence and his covetous looks, informed her husband, who put on her clothes, took her place and her distaff, and pretending to spin, waited for the pixie. The fairy arrives, looks askance at the strange spinner and says to her: “Where is that beauty, that beautiful woman from yesterday evening, who spins, spins, and is spinning still, because you, you turn, turn, and yet you don’t spin?” The husband makes no reply and waits until the fairy sits down on the stool from which he used to devour the housewife with his eyes, and where a red hot cake pan[10]  had been treacherously placed. So the fairy sits down and, indeed, outrageously burns its tail, and utters a loud cry, saying: 

“Who has committed this wicked wickedness against me? Is it that beauty, that beautiful woman who is always around?” 

“No,” replies the husband. “It is I, myself, who never spins!” 

The exasperated fairy flies up the chimney to call his companions who were cavorting about on the roof. 

“What are you shouting, shouting about?” they say.

“I am burning, burning!”

 “And who burned you, burned you?” 

“It is me, myself, the one who never spins.”[11] 

This answer seemed so stupid to the other fairies, rude spirits that they were,  that the beautiful spinner's husband heard them laugh like mad, booing, fooling around and driving away the poor lover, which made the husband very happy, for he had been afraid of drawing the whole band of pixies against him, and never again did his wife's lover dare to come to his house again.

This Norman legend has a kind of counterpart in Berry, or rather, it is the same legend with variations that capture the local spirit.

Here the follet or fadet, the story does not say precisely what type of cunning spirit, did not have love on his mind. Just like a Berrichon Devil, he thought only of enraging the spinner, who did not spin linen on her spindle but rather spun wool on her wheel, and, instead of gazing upon her with tender eyes, he maliciously tangled and broke her strands, so that while she was mending them, he was able to slip into the arche (the bread box) and steal the cakes that the housewife had saved for her children. 

Having noticed this trick, the good woman pretended to know nothing and, bending down, she subtly picked up the fine end of this character's long tail, tied it to a strand of her wool and began to twirl it, twirl it on her spinning wheel, as if it were a skein.

The fadet didn't notice it right away, busy wallowing in the cheesecake. But when the spinning wheel had rolled five or six lengths of tail, he very much felt it and began to shout: “My tail, my tail!” The spinner ignored him, and, still spinning, began to sing: “Pelotte, pelotte, ma roulotte!” with such a good voice and making so much noise with her wheel, that the other devils, trapped on the roof, did not hear the moaning and cursing of their comrade, who was forced to surrender, and to swear by the name of the Big Devil from Hell that he would never set foot in her house again.

According to some versions, the pixie who enjoys tangling up a spinner’s threads is a female spirit, a bad fairy. In my childhood, I heard an old woman say on such an occasion, “The jouillarde got into it!” and she made a cross in her hand to ward off and chase away the diablesse.

What elsewhere is called the goblin, the fairy, the pixie, the farfadet, the kobbold, the orco, the elf, the troll, etc., etc., in Berry, is most often called the follet (wisps). There are good ones and bad ones. There are those who groom the horses in the stable - all farmhands hear their whips and the call of their tongues; and there are those who gallop the horses in the pasture at night, and who braid horses’ manes to make themselves stirrups (since they are too small to stand on the animal's rump and always ride on the neck); they are are quite good little children and run away when approached by men. Their malice consists of causing death or miscarriage to the mares who allow them to cut their mane whenever they please, to braid and knot for their own use. The favourite mounts of the follet are called chevaux bouclés (shaggy horses), and in the old days they were esteemed as the best and most fierce. The groomed follet mares were sought after at fairs as good broodmares.

This follet of the stables still exists among us in the belief of many people. All peasants forty years of age, who have devoted themselves to raising horses, have seen them and swear to it with a candour impossible to doubt. They have never been afraid of them, knowing that they are not mean. They all describe it the same way. He is as big as a small rooster and he has a bright red crest. His eyes are of fire, his body is that of a fairly well-made little man, except that he has claws instead of nails. The tail varies; according to some it is made of feathers, according to others it is an inordinately long rat's tail, which he uses, like a whip, to make his horse run.

In the north of France, some of these nains (dwarfs) are very wicked and take pleasure in leading travellers astray. In La Marche, around the dolmens, all spirits are dangerous and hostile to man because they are in charge of guarding the treasures hidden under the large stones. Woe to the curious and especially to the ambitious who prowl around these monuments at night, where the eternal mystery of tradition reigns. They jump on horses’ necks, knock the rider to the ground and beat him up. However, we can protect ourselves from them in several ways, when we have been bold enough to study - at all risks - their habits and fancies. In general, they are not intelligent and speak the human language with difficulty. Like those of Normandy and like the korrigans of Brittany, they have the mania or rather, the infirmity, of repeating the same word twice, without being able to reach three, or if they exceed this number by doubling it, they can't say it a seventh time.

A treasure hunter, who saw a dwarf jump in front of him, dragging him into a magnetic circle and repeatedly saying to him in a sharp little voice: “Turn, turn,” stopped him short by answering him: “I turn, I return and I turn away.” The dwarf did not understand, and, thinking that this was a formula beyond his knowledge, let go of the man, jumped on the stone and made it dance so hard and turn so quickly that fire came out of it. The man dared not approach it, but he was able to draw back without being followed. Only the dwarf had given him such a spinning motion, making him waltz with him around the devilish stone, that he returned home, still spinning on himself like a spinning top, and went to collapse from fatigue at the door of his house.

George SAND

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 19: Yes, to Err is Human, So Don't Be One (3)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: The thicker the water, the more weeds for sirens to hide in. Secrets, secrets, secrets. Their flavor is so delicious to the split plant man.

Author's Note: The sung song in this chapter is Come Along by Cosmo Sheldrake. As before, the title and the chapter breaks are lyrics from Yes, to Err is Human, So Don't Be One by Will Wood.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I could take your life, if you're done with it, sweetheart

You still picking at that? Only ate the good parts

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The woman...is a horrible liar.

In her mind, hiding behind the props around her musical stage are the clarinets, the oboes and the drums. They rise from the cattails, the tall grass and brambly bushes— instruments that either don’t exist here or are simply not available to her. All the same, the symphony is in the stranger’s mind, and that’s enough. This murky atmosphere and the song of lost souls go hand in hand like lovers trying to run away, eloped and gone forever. She remembers, that first day with Hidan, that man in love with another who planned to escape to the land of the stars, who unwittingly snuck her a backstory for this character she’s become.

The promise to live has made the woman forget her promise to not come here without Kakuzu.

The edge of the lake is muckier and rockier the farther she circles to the south end, the farthest from her home she’s abandoned tonight, coming here so foolishly by her lonesome. The moisture of the mud sinks between bare toes, tells her that marshland may near by.

How perfect.

She follows the cattails’ path, walks underneath twisty gnarls of old trees, their branches stretched overhead like gates as she imagines herself stepping into a magical realm. Is she already in one? Doesn’t matter too much. There’s different kinds of magic, and the kind that contains death isn’t really one she wants to dwell on more than necessary.

The intro to this composition is long, and she sings onomatopoeia breathy and dramatic as the instrumental needs, swings her hands and arms and steps in a waltz. Shadows grow taller as she wanders deeper into gloomy perdition; it should terrify her, but danger is familiar. The parasites that accompany such untamed ecosystems don’t intimidate her, even as she leaves her shoes by the clearer water.

The spirit of the trees watches her spin around in her white nightgown, the shape of her visible beneath as moonlight shines through the thin cloth. A few final “bum bum bum”s, and finally she gets to sing. It’s as close as one can get to inviting the ghosts in without your ouija board.

Come along, catch a Heffalump

Sit with me on a muddy clump

We'll sing a song of days gone by

Fireflies are re-imagined as sprites, little chimes as their voices that reply much as bells do in the original song. Dum, dee, dum, dee. Hands stretch to each one like a band's conductor; then fingers pinch their fingers and twist by her wrists, like they're plucking and shaking the fairydust out of the bugs' wings.

Run along now, don’t be glum

Get you gone, now, have some fun

Don't be long, for the end is nigh

Dancing is not something she has done, not in front of the others, but here surrounded by the dank of stagnant water and the thick oxygen of the rooted plants, there is no other choice. She is alone. She gets to be the archetype she’s always wanted to be: the fairy in the forest, the witch of the woods, the siren of the swamp. Change is stirring in the air and it needs a bit of stewing, a bit of time in a watchful magician’s cauldron lest the concoction of time and fate begin to form a scum on the top, like milk does when left alone in a mug for too long. Itachi and Tobi and Kakuzu and Hidan and Kisame, in separate degrees and directions, know her biggest secret and shame. She can finally let go, at least in some sense. She has no calendar on paper but as generations before did, the traveler can still see days pass. The grass is yellowing at the tips and her roses are beginning to wilt. Summer is ending, autumn nearly begun. Her favorite seasons are the ones of change, where the scent in the wind carries another aroma than just heat or cold, where either the perfume of blooms or the rot of dead leaves leave a taste in the back of her mouth just from being outside for a minute or two.

Don't let moments pass along

And waste before your eyes

Winter is her hardest time of the year, and she is afraid, but autumn will make it worth it. The fall will help her prepare for a tumble through the blizzards to come. The ribbon is untied from her hair, held in her hand and swirled around like a flag as locks bounce mussed and free.

March with me and the borogoves

Come with me and the slithy toves

And never ask us why

Autumn is the time of mysteries, whimsies, and magics. That’s why a silly girl is out by her lonesome, asking the life around her to come along, come play where prying eyes can’t see.

She may be a performer, but she is still a horrible liar. The spirit of the trees witnesses her in her folly, raw and vulnerable and so very eager to get lost. He watches her hop and clap and skip in the way one only can when they believe they are truly all alone.

Come, come, come, come, come along now

Run away from the hum-drum

We'll go to a place that is safe from

Greed, anger and boredom

We'll dance and sing till sundown

And feast with abandon

We'll sleep when the morning comes

And we'll rise by the sound of the birdsongs

Perhaps her lack of sleep for these starlit dreams is catching up with her, as with one extra spin she sees a shadow grow over her shoulder, sees the jagged, toothy shapes on the soaked grass ahead begin to crack open like an egg, revealing the shape of a human head. Abruptly, it is known that this is not simply getting herself dizzy.

“AH!”

She trips as she attempts to spin on her heel, and for the third time since they’ve properly met, Zetsu catches her in his arms. His eyes— one complete and one merely a circle— shine like will-o-wisps, like her fireflies that flutter blinking lights around the ankles and knees.

The spirit of the trees smiles ever so softly with half of his face.

“So...you’re a little ghost after all.” Nearly like Tobi did before, she’s kept in this dip, forced to feel herself in his grasp, at his mercy lest gravity take her the rest of the way down. She watches the way that his arms grasp not through his sleeves but the middle of his cloak, like the massive green structure around his skull must go further down his body than just the shoulders. It’s all too staggering for her to have a quip, an explanation more than stuttering “I-I-I-”s. He’s so calm; is he mad?

Wait…

She finds her tongue, the monster’s namesake.

“A...ghost?”

“Yes, of course you are. I can see it now,” White Zetsu speaks more to himself than to her, yellow orbs drinking her in. Then he and the dark one take turns in their revelation:

“The fear.”

“The whimsy.”

“The affinity for death.”

“The desire to live.”

What the heck is he talking about?! The only thing on her mind, now that she can talk, is to try to get herself out of trouble, wiggle out of his hands. “What? What are you— Huh—?” His one full eye crinkles the bottom lid up as he grins. To her horror, it is distinctly in tease.

“You’re not allowed outside alone, you know.”

Electricity shivers down her spine, makes her breath hitch as he looms over her. She tries to counter: “I— I was told so. Kakuzu told me—”

“You misunderstand.” As Black Zetsu speaks, she gives a surprised, questioning hum, still tinged musical. The white one picks it back up: “I don’t mean that you need to prompt someone to go with you, lest you misbehave.” And black delivers the blow, voice so deep it nearly makes her see a scowl on a blank face:

“You are never alone when you step out those doors.”

Holy shit.

The woman swallows, frog from the lake having jumped in her throat, making her eyes wide and boggling like she is one herself. Breathless lips part. Does this mean what she thinks it means?

Beyond shadow of a doubt, the terrible answer is yes.

“Our little ghost,” Zetsu confirms, both voices at once. He knows. He heard everything.

She wants to scream but she can’t. Simultaneously, a black arm wraps around her back possessively, making her unable to so much as squirm. The white hand reaches up, and almost as if he’s never had opportunity to touch another human being, an index finger trails its fingertip from an invisible target ring on her forehead, down the bridge of a nose that should grow in length for each and every lie, down to the lips that release her secrets. Zetsu loves secrets; they’re almost as delicious as the freshly dead.

“...Let’s strike a deal,” the unearthly creature bargains. The scent of pollen wafts around her again, so soft it’s underneath the stank of the swamp, but so distinct she remembers it from the last time Zetsu held her, upside down from a tree.

It isn’t necessary, per say, to hide that she is dead, but Zetsu finds no harm in a bit of playtime. Where would the fun be found if he didn’t find a way to keep every piece of the puzzle under his thumb, have leverage in case it is necessary? Let her believe it changes her fate. Eyebrows furrow underneath haunted wide eyes. Yes, of course she accepts the wager, but what is it she must give in turn?

Zetsu either hasn’t decided yet or is keeping it a secret. His answer is too plain, to cryptic, too charming to be the truth:

“Continue,” he demands, light voice airy like he’s trying to draw out her breath with a spell. “Dance. Sing. With me.”

…

The frog in her throat sinks down to her stomach. Her voice is free. Ironically, the amphibian from the night with Kakuzu is no longer here to sing in her place, to fill the silence. Eyeballs twitching in their sockets evaluate the split man, the greatest mystery of all, in all of this twisty-turny dream. He’s made of stuff from nightmares, yes: stark black and white divided and unreal, character design that screams “carnivore”, the way she can never tell what he’s supposed to mean when he speaks.

But.

But.

What are fairy tales if not making the nonsensical, uncomfortable palatable? With the parting of her lips the deal is struck, as if she has a choice. The stranger sings him her story with no need to pick up from the beginning. He was there for that, and she knows it. She begins stiff at first, voice quiet now that she’s being so intensely scrutinized. Zetsu raises her at a matching, theatrical pace, gradually from dipped to upright, a hand firm upon her back and one placing its fingers delicately under her chin. Blunt teeth peek from half a smile.

The first thing, after all, that the spy admitted about her is how well she does sing.

We'll be here when the world slows down

And the sunbeams fade away

Keeping time by a pendulum

As the fabric starts to fray

These lyrics are truer than she ever realized. Will it be this way, just like that? Just him and her till the end of her time, till the sand in the hourglass tumbles down its last grain? Bi-colored hands loosen once she's back on her own unshoed feet, the black one slipping back into his cloak as the white one begins to tug at the fabric. The stranger watches, evaluates as the monster reveals more of his inhuman body. Even so, even struck with this sight, she must continue:

There’s no such thing as time to kill

Nor time to throw away

This near whisper knows the next part of the melody is louder; if she doesn’t meet the need it presents, it will be obvious. She feels her shoulders rise and fall with a panicked breath she tries to control, waiting as he begins to undress. The red clouds slip to the ground, soaking the damp of the earth. He’s split black and white as far down his torso as remaining clothes allow sight of. In a flex— almost like a stretch, waking up in the morning— the massive leaves fold downward to skirt his waist, his arms now free to do entirely as they please...

They are held forward, palms up and waiting. The diptych man continues to send mixed messages with his face.

...Entirely free for her to take back and perhaps, perchance, pretend that she is in control. A hand of fate and a hand of chance are held in either of her own, and she spins one...

So, once for the bright sky

Two...

Twice for the pig sty

Three times...

Thrice for another day

...As she counts her lives and wonders if maybe she can get one more.

The chorus is given another go, and she attempts to skip and jump and dance with the fae that has never left her side. He's somehow halfway between stiff and melting so very, very easily.

Come, come, come, come, come along now

Run away from the hum-drum

We'll go to a place that is safe from

Greed, anger and boredom

The only retort to such a being is to either play wholeheartedly or not join the game at all; the latter is no longer an option. The performer prays to the gods of night that she may never give him her real name in her sleep, and she swings them around with nothing to lose. He won’t be satisfied by dance alone, surely…

...But part of her enjoys being chased, doesn’t it?

We'll dance and sing till sundown

And feast with abandon

We'll sleep when the morning comes

And we'll rise by the sound of the birdsongs

Clarinets again, just in her head. She must attempt to sound them out, humming and dumming so the split man gets some sort of idea of the waltz with sprites and things undead. Is that her now? Is she undead?

Come with me, catch a rare type specimen

Cuddle up with a hesitant skeleton

We'll break our fast with friends

Once we're fed, we shall disappear rapidly

Many moons to the west of here and happily

Our journey never ends

He whispers again, mouth brushing against her neck as he pulls her close in one of these whimsical steps into the unknown, the tone too uncertain to her ears: “Our little ghost.”

Shut your ears when sirens sing,

Tie armbands to your feet

Midnight honeysuckle’s scent is so thick she’ll smell it on herself for a week. The performer closes her eyes, pretends this is all a dream, and twirls with he that may take it all away. There is one comfort: the dream doesn’t have to end if she doesn’t fall asleep, if she doesn’t have something to wake up from. Perhaps the monster knows this is all she’ll ever want.

Listen up and you won't go wrong again

Float along on a verse-less song and then

Get to where the two ends meet

Perhaps now the monster can feel some semblance of control, over the strange spell the witch casts, the song the siren sings that lure others in. Perchance he is playing too much. Zetsu wonders if her sort of death has a different kind of taste, marinated in pale, moonlit gloom and steeped in the irony of human gods.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hey, whatever works, I'm a cheap date

(Check, please)

Falling off the bone, I'm awful glad we met

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[autumncrowcus]

I just finished rereading Hangsaman (spoilers in this post) and I paid attention to the Tarot meanings given by Natalie and Tony. I wondered if it would be possible to find the source for their interpretations, so I checked the meanings against what I think is probably the most common book, The Pictorial Key to the Tarot by A.E. Waite. Natalie is named after its author, after all. I found that a lot of the meanings are almost direct quotes from Waite, although they're usually shortened. Here are the cards, in the order they appear in the book (page numbers from the Penguin Classics edition]:

Three of Wands, page 185: Tony: “Established strength. Trade, commerce, discovery. Ships crossing the sea. Reversed, the end of troubles.” Waite: "established strength, enterprise, effort, trade, commerce, discovery…able co-operation in business. Reversed: The end of troubles, suspension or cessation of adversity, toil and disappointment."

Three of Pentacles, page 185: Natalie: “Nobility, aristocracy…Reversed, pettiness.” Waite: "Métier, trade, skilled labour; usually, however, regarded as a card of nobility, aristocracy, renown, glory. Reversed: Mediocrity, in work and otherwise, puerility, pettiness, weakness."

Ace of Cups, page 185: Natalie: “House of the true heart…Joy, fertility.” “Reversed, revolution.” Waite: "House of the true heart, joy, content, abode, nourishment, abundance, fertility; Holy Table, felicity hereof. Reversed: House of the false heart, mutation, instability, revolution."

Ace of Wands, page 185: Tony: “The origin of all things. Reversed, ruin.” Waite: "Creation, invention, enterprise, the powers which result in these; principle, beginning, source; birth, family, origin, and in a sense the virility which is behind them; the starting point of enterprises; according to another account, money, fortune, inheritance. Reversed: Fall, decadence, ruin, perdition, to perish also a certain clouded joy."

Page of Swords, page 191: Natalie: “Vigilance, secrecy.” (This is Tony’s card, which is mentioned more than once. Natalie does not give the reversed meaning.) Waite: "Authority, overseeing, secret service, vigilance, spying, examination, and the qualities thereto belonging. Reversed: More evil side of these qualities; what is unforeseen, unprepared state; sickness is also intimated."

Hanged Man, page 193: They argue over whether or not it’s fair to call out the card for a toy: a figure on a trapeze. Natalie argues that “The Tree of sacrifice is not living wood,” but relents and gives the meaning: “’Life in death. Joy of constructive death.’ [Tony:] “’Reversed?”’ [Natalie:] “’Reversed, probably not practical for any smart child.’” Waite: It should be noted (1) that the tree of sacrifice is living wood, with leaves thereon; (2) that the face expresses deep entrancement, not suffering; (3) that the figure, as a whole, suggests life in suspension, but life and not death. It is a card of profound significance, but all the significance is veiled…I will say very simply on my own part that it expresses the relation, in one of its aspects, between the Divine and the Universe. "He who can understand that the story of his higher nature is imbedded in this symbolism will receive intimations concerning a great awakening that is possible, and will know that after the sacred Mystery of Death there is a glorious Mystery of Resurrection."

5 of Pentacles, page 195: Natalie, thinking: “Material trouble, no charity; reversed, earthly love.” Waite: "material trouble above all, whether in the form illustrated--that is, destitution—or otherwise. For some cartomancists, it is a card of love and lovers-wife, husband, friend, mistress; also concordance, affinities. These alternatives cannot be harmonized. Reversed: Disorder, chaos, ruin, discord, profligacy."

Page of Pentacles, page 214: “....[Tony] patted Natalie’s arm lightly and said, ‘Don’t be afraid,’ and added, as one reassuring a whimpering child with a familiar rhyme, ‘Page of pentacles.’ When Natalie again did not move or answer, she said, ‘Well then. A soldier, a child. Reversed, degradation or pillage.’ “’I thought it was a game,’ Natalie said. “’Keep thinking of it as a game.’” Waite: "Application, study, scholarship, reflection another reading says news, messages and the bringer thereof; also rule, management. Reversed: Prodigality, dissipation, liberality, luxury; unfavourable news."

The only card whose meaning is completely different from Waite's description is the last one, the Page of Pentacles. I wonder if that’s because the meaning is given after Natalie starts to get scared in the forest. The second-to-last card is long before that, when they meet the one-armed man.

[poll-ventures]

Perdition 1.4

< >

I hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand, its screen showing an old rotary telephone slamming into its receiver.

Numbly, I watched it repeat several times before it faded away into the black of the dead screen. Why had I done that?

What am I doing?

I broke into a sprint down the road, running as fast as I could to the woods. 

*****

The woods of Old Hill were untouched. Serene, tranquil, and still easing itself awake from the dusty silence of early morning. I tore through the trees at a sprint, thin vines and branches tearing at my coat as I sped over the cold packed dirt and gnarled forest roots. 

I was following a creek, and I was relatively sure it was the same one that Noel meant. I’d seen the maps of the land in the museums, but those had never held much truth when it came to small details like a small creek in the heavy western woods. Noel's parent's mansion had been built only a few decades ago, so I was guessing at a ghost.

I slowed as I approached a large fallen basswood tree, leaning on it as I caught my breath. I really wasn’t made for running, and my lungs screamed with the icy air pulling and pushing out of them. As I sat on the cool bark, I faced the way I’d come, and recognized it.

I’d been here before, with Noel, when she needed a break from her homework, or life in general. This was near the right spot.

“Noel!” I shouted, turning around on the tree to search for her. The quiet, yet alive chatter of the woods slowed as my voice rung out, then returned as it died.

A woodpecker stabbed a rhythm into a far away tree, and the forest all together went on uncaring. I swore under my breath, and moved my legs to straddle the cold dead tree like a horse.

The felled basswood spanned the creek, and I stared down its length as I caught my breath. Moving my gloved hand down the trunk, I found my glove was sticking to something.

It was a carved heart. The injured wood was green and fresh, sap building up and out at the edges of the cut.

The letters in the heart read N + J, then a date. 2-3-23. Very fresh. I stared at the ‘N’, brushing the older sap aside with my thick gloved digits.

Natalie.

The name still burned painfully in my heart, incorrect and shameful in the memories it wrought. One word from a well meaning stranger, one reminder of the date of the accident, that’s all it took. 

February 15th, 2020. The night was alive in my mind again, without my asking. I turned my head up, to face the woods. 

The woods, as many dark and cold nights on the road had taught me, could be very dangerous. Refusing to drive or even be driven after the accident, I had backpacked my way down from New York.

I’d thought the trip would be quick; Google Maps said ten days, and I thought I'd be in Old Hill in nine, maybe eight days, easy.

After the money for inns and motels had run out, I had realized that walking worked on the same kind of time that hospitals and classes right before lunch did: Slow time. 

Time that stretches on until you're sunburnt and dehydrated, until you want to turn back, but that would make things even worse, and everyone back home doesn’t want you there anyway, so just keep on heading down I-81 counting the mile markers. 

Slow time traps you in this until your eyes roll into the back of your skull, and you’re willing to sleep on a pile of rusty nails because at least they don’t fucking honk at you for having the gall to walk on the shoulder instead of in the gluttonous mud trench that sucks your falling-apart-shoes down its shit-coated-throat.

So, after a long day of trudging, the sun would go down, sometimes obligingly slow, sometimes slipping right out of slow time and into blink-and-you’ll-miss-it time, diving below the horizon and leaving you soaking wet, struggling with two damp sticks to make a fire.

This, however, was preferable to the perils of the interstate’s shoulder and its many bored, cloying cops and just-like-me vagrants.

If I had to choose, though, it’d be the vagrants. I’d shared a few kind fires with a number of them, sometimes learning their names and their stories, sometimes sitting in uneasy silence until we wandered off to sleep in private.

As the weeks wore on, I had been moving into a cold front, and not sleeping in front of the fire had become impossible. 

More often than not, I’d made camp in a thin layer of trees that lined a highway-side property. Sometimes you’d need to hop a fence, which started out hard, but by the second week was routine.

This was technically and legally trespassing, but a camo sleeping bag and a good spot usually got you through the night without disturbance. Usually.

More than once, I’d been woken by something rummaging through my belongings, sometimes even the coat I’d been sleeping in. Sometimes it’d be curious and annoyed animals, but most times it had been people. The cops had always been the worst. 

“What you’re doing is illegal,” they’d say, then look at me confused and finish either with “Sir,” or, more often, “Ma’am.” Always with disapproval in their voice and always using more force than needed.

Sometimes they’d let me move on, or I’d get a ride to their office, where they called my father, confirmed he knew where I was, then bewilderedly let me go, usually with a stern warning. 

Most cops, when they understood, had offered food and drink for my trip. Some had even offered rides, which I graciously denied. Some offered neither, and just let me go.

One, the worst, had left me locked up in the little town’s singular cell for three days and three nights. It was just outside of West Virginia, right after I’d crossed the Kentucky border. 

Jessup, as the nothing little two-road town was called, apparently had trouble keeping folk around. Or so I was told by Jessup’s top boozer, who said his name was Jesse. He’d already been in the cell when I was thrown in.

The officer who’d found me on the side of the road, a mean mugging ugly woman, had given Jesse her meanest mug as she walked away with a clipboard securely tucked beneath one arm.

Jesse of Jessup played harmonica, and drank like a fish. In the morning he was always set free, but at night, he was brought to the cell, what he lovingly and drunkenly called ‘Jesse’s Little Corner of Jessup’. 

On my last night in his town, he’d snuck in a small bottle of Fireball, a deck of cards, and his dirty harmonica, still wet from its play in the bar. After the mean-mugger had left for the night, Jesse showed me how to play Hearts, Bullshit, Garbage, and the 'ca.

He was good, and I told him as much. In his jovial way, he corrected me: “I’m not good,” I remembered him slurring, “I’m mean. ‘Jesse,’ you should say. ‘You play a meaaaaan har-moan-i-cah,’ you should be saying.”

So I did, and he cheered. We shared no campfire, but did huddle and did dance around the rattling radiator, him blowing sharply into the ‘cah and me stomping my boots and clapping my hands.

He’d thanked me for my company, and kissed me gently on the cheek. He’d reeked of alcohol and worse, but I thanked him for his good humor, and let him sleep. 

After the mean-mugger had exhausted all of her attempts to find me guilty of various crimes, she’d let me go. She had demanded I shower first, staring me down with a disappointed grandmotherly glare. So, thanks to her, I walked out of Jessup and up the highway on-ramp cleaner than I’d been in weeks.

The memory of the mean-faced officer set a worry ablaze in my stomach as I stared down the creek. Again, the stab of the woodpecker cut through the wood’s idle chatter. Why was I out here?

Why in the world had I ignored direct orders from an officer of the law, when they knew my name and phone number? It gnawed at me. I’d never done anything like this.

I finally crossed the log, and stepped off of it onto the other side of the creek. “Noel!” I shouted out again, this time more of a bark. A quick check of the woods revealed nothing but the quiet apathy that suffused the trees. Wasting my time, when she could be in danger. What the fuck am I do-

“Hands up,” a thin, scared voice said from behind me. I recognized the slight southern accent.

“Noel,” I said, half turning my head. “I-”

“I said hands up!” She was shouting now, and I turned to face her with my hands up.

Noel, almost thirteen and dressed in stained Hello Kitty pijamas, held a rifle aimed at my chest. The lever action rifle was almost comically large in her arms, and I laughed nervously, falling, then stepping backwards as she approached me slowly, gun held level against her shoulder. She was trying not to cry.

“Where is my father,” she asked in a broken voice, screwing up her face in a grimace.

“I-I don’t know, Noel, what are you doing? I came here to help you,” I blurted out, still holding my hands in the air carefully. “Please, put the gun down.”

She shook her head. “Answer me,” she said, waving it in the air. She stood on the basswood I had crossed the creek on, and faced me, searching my face for a clue.

“I don’t know,” I repeated, feeling the cold press of a tree against my back. The creek babbled quietly next to us, and I stared at her. We both stood, unmoving.

Carefully, she stared at me, then raised the gun to point at my head. “Stop fucking lying!” she barked at me. I flinched, closing my eyes.

“I’m not! The cops said you were missing, nothing about your dad! I don’t know what the hell is going on, I just want you to stop pointing that thing at me,” I said, breathing heavily. 

“Bullshit,” she spat, the curse sounding foreign in her light voice. “Don’t move,” she said, and braced the rifle against her with one arm as she dug in her pocket for something. Then she threw it at me, and adjusted her grip on the gun. 

Her phone landed next to me in the leaves, the screen lighting up to show a picture of Noel and her mother, smiling happily in a selfie. I looked up at her, facing the glare of the rifle’s blackened metal barrel. She stared at me, raw anger in her eyes.

“You know the passcode,” she growled. “Open it. Watch the video.” I blinked, then nodded, crouching slowly and taking my right hand down to put in the numbers. 9-2-1-2. Her birthday.

The phone opened, showing a paused recording of a computer monitor. The woodpecker stabbed his staccato into a nearby tree. I tapped on the screen, then pressed play.

The video was a recording of the security system in the house I’d lived in until yesterday, portrayed in black and white. It was a view from the top of the grand staircase, watching the front door and most of the upstairs balcony, and the time in the bottom left corner read 2:03 A.M..

Noel, holding the camera in the video, was quietly and carefully breathing, the view slowly moving with her breath. The time in security footage flipped to 2:04 A.M.. The real Noel’s breathing suddenly broke out in a gentle shaking wheeze, I wasn’t sure if she was sobbing, or laughing. “Keep watching,” she choked, seeing I was looking up at her.

Car headlights streamed through the front door’s windows, casting shadows on the wall of the balcony floor. The balustrade’s shadows fled quickly across the wall, then slowly melted away as the headlights died. A moment passed, and then the door opened. Noel’s father walked in. 

Kyle Montgomery was a tall man, ambiguously young but mature and well kept. Grey was seeping in at the top of his scalp, peppering his blond, jaw length hair. Carefully hanging his keys on a hook near the door, he stared at himself in the full length mirror next to the door, straightening out his thin mustache and checking his jawline. 

He mussed up his hair, then turned his head back and forth to check if it was correctly incorrect. Nodding in approval, he shrugged off his heavy business coat, and let it drop to the floor as he walked up the stairs. He shed his suit and loosened his tie, leaving him with just a tailored pinstripe button up tucked into perfect black slacks. 

As he rose to the top of the stairs, he stopped and carefully undid the highest button of his shirt, the tie hanging loosely about his chest like an ascot. 

Then, he paused, staring down at the mess of his coat on the ground, the stairs, then the hall the opposite way, where his wife and child were asleep. He looked small in the video, and suddenly very tired. Still facing his bedroom, he raised his hand gently to his mouth, and bit down softly on it. 

He turned to face my bedroom, biting down on his own flesh hard enough to draw a bead of blood. He walked to my door, then knocked on it, drawing his wounded hand to his side, near his hip. He looked as if he were going to draw a sword, though nothing was there, just his right hand hovering a few inches away from his left hip.

The door opened, and I was standing in the crack. I was dressed in pijamas, and looked at him confused. He said something, the recording silent. In the past, I nodded, widening the door.

My brain felt like it was dropped in a bath of ice water, pure confusion washing over me. “What the fuck?” I said aloud, watching myself open the door further, letting him step in. I walked away, disappearing into the room as he slipped through the doorway, then closed it. 

I stared at my door in the video, nauseated. “Noel,” I said, staring up at her from the floor of the forest. “I don’t remember this.” My voice was cracking, confusion and fear seeping into my words from my core.

“Bullshit,” she croaked. She readjusted the grip on the rifle. “I’ve literally seen you do it. I watched you open that door for him! I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but it’s got to be why he’s gone. Where is he?”

“Noel,” I pleaded, “That’s not me. There’s no way, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that to you, or your mom,” I said. “Beli-”

“I don’t believe you,” she shouted, almost sobbing now. “You’re a liar. You stole my dad, or killed him, or something, ‘cause you knew it wasn’t right. Almost every night at two A.M., since you got here. Look!” She gestured towards her phone with the rifle. 

I looked down carefully, cringing away from the gun as it came back up to point at me. Noel in the video was shaking, watching as her father left my room, five minutes after he had entered it.

He looked the same as when he’d entered, save for the blood and bite mark on his hand. They were gone. He walked calmly down the stairs, grabbed his coat, and left the house. The car’s headlights cast the familliar shadows in reverse.

The camera spun, and the mouse on the desktop shakily moved to a new folder, reading 2/13/23. Two days ago. The mouse maneuvered to the video file labeled 200, the second file in the folder, and opened it.

Almost on the dot at 2:03 A.M., Mr. Montgomery stepped into the foyer, shrugged his coat onto the floor, then climbed the stairs.

This time, he didn’t pause on the way to my door to bite his hand, stopping only to knock, clearly hover his hand over his empty hip, then enter my room. 

I hadn’t even looked up at him. I’d just let him in. 

“What the fuck,” I whispered hoarsely. 

The mouse skimmed the video to five minutes later, when Kyle exited punctually, closing the door after him carefully, then taking the stairs two at a time to leave the mansion. 

The video then clicked through random nights at two A.M., watching the same process occur many times over, sped up. 

Sometimes he bit his hand, sometimes he just knocked. Always, his hand reached for the empty space at his left hip. I watched, silently, until the video ended suddenly in the middle of a night.

Noel had been staring at me the entire time, burning with silent rage. “Just tell me.”

I took a deep breath, and sat on the cold, packed dirt. “I don’t know, Noel. That’s not me. There’s no way…” 

I wasn’t one to repress memories. My worst traumatic memories, I could remember in painful detail, burned into the fabric of my being. It could be an actor, but no, I’d been there at two A.M., almost every weeknight for a year. I could very distinctly remember my nights, they were usually taken up with studying and listening to music.

A coldly horrible idea formed in my head. He could have been drugging me to make me forget. Something in a drink, or something in food. He hadn’t been carrying anything in with him… 

But it could’ve been in his pocket. I writhed in disgust, and I drew my knees up to my chest, feeling my breath hitch inside me as I stared emptily at the phone. 

“What the fuck was he doing to me,” I said, hollow, not really there, not really meaning to. What had he done to me? Why couldn’t I remember? If he was drugging me inside of my room, how had I let him in? Would I let that man in my room if he knocked? No. Definitely no. “What the fuck,” I whispered, rocking slightly.

“Parker?” Noel asked softly.

“No,” I stated, almost to myself. “It’s a fake, a fake video or a fake set that he made to set me up. It’s just an actor, just…” Noel was staring at me, shaking her head.

“What do you mean?” She asked, lowering the rifle a little, stepping towards me.

“He was never home, he could’ve been, I don’t know, setting this up? There’s no way I’d let him into my room. I don’t even like your father as a person, let alone,” I stopped, feeling bile rise in my chest. “No. This isn’t real.” I stated firmly, and felt like I was coming back to myself, at least a little.

“No, Parker,” she said, stepping back again and raising the rifle. “I watched you do it. After I recorded this, I stayed up to watch you. He knocked, you let him in.”

“No,” I pleaded.

“Please, don’t lie,” Noel whispered.

“Stop calling me a fucking liar! I don’t remember any of this!” I was shouting now, on my knees in front of her.

"Just tell me the truth!" She cried, matching my intensity.

"I am!" I screamed I picked up the phone, throwing it back to her harder than I needed to. She staggered backward, shocked.

"Liar." Noel almost growled the word, dripping with resentment.

She bent to pick up her phone, momentarily hugging the rifle against her chest, hand still on the trigger guard. It was pointed at me. My eyes darted up to Noel's. She wasn’t looking at me.

What do you do?

< >

[hotspurpercy]

WEEKLY UPDATE TWO —

date — 03.06.23 words written — 5,455 total word count — 25,643 percentage complete — 28%

EXCERPT —

Jonathan dreams. Dark and velveteen dreams, soft, enveloping. Blue dreams, flashing with the reflections of a thousand roving, icy eyes. He tosses, the fingers of those dreams piercing into him, pulling at the soft flesh of him. Peeling him open and laying him bare to the milky gaze of the full moon, which touches the pinkness of his insides.

He wakes in half-darkness. The sheets are soaked, tangled around him; he needs to get up, but he can’t. His neck hurts. His bones hurt, every joint, every limb. He needs to eat, eat, eat —

Jonathan dreams of a vast wood, trees falling over each other as the ground dips and rolls like damask. Of running, dancing over the dirt, fuelled by some exultant hunger. Of a silky sea, sparkling under the spangling of stars.

He wakes and retches. Leans over the side of his bed, hears vomit splattering on the floorboards. He needs to eat, he’s empty empty empty, his bones burn — they’re going to crack apart — he presses his eyes as tight closed as they’ll go and wills wills wills the thread of his body to hold itself together.

Jonathan dreams of teeth sinking into flesh. The image is confused: is he the consumer, or the consumed? Is his ecstasy from the satiation of devouring, or the sanctification of being devoured.

Jonathan dreams, wavers, and falls back into dreamless darkness.

( + TAGLIST UNDER THE CUT )

@villanaeve / @vandorens-archive / @nallthatjazz / @starshots-blog1 / @cannivalisms / @perditism / @spillme / @upoffringar / @thelittlestspider / @wildswrites / @brownpaperhag / @akoumi / @quilloftheclouds / @absolute-nonsense-scribblings / @birdywrote / @tiredlittleoldme / @strangerays / @ninazeniks / @authortango / @aetherwrites / @caravagest / @chazzawrites / @anavkour / @videsnoir / @karamel-pop / @philocalizt / @cryptidsandqueers / @kingsinking / @stephwriteswords / @muddshadow

[riley-phoenix]

Pairing: Dean X Cas, Sam X Eileen

Canon: Supernatural

Content: Fix it Fic, fluff, violence, blood

Author's Note: For my heartbroken Destiel and Seileen shippers, I got you.

Summary: This is my attempt at a Supernatural series finale fix-it-fic; it gives the Winchester brothers the peaceful endings they got, along with the relationships they deserved. Let me know what you think, is it better than the real finale?

"It's ok, you can go now...", Sam said as the tears rolled down his face and he felt the strength fade from Dean's arm. Dean looked at him and smiled one final time. The smile said everything. 'Goodbye', 'Thank You', 'This isn't the end'. Everything. The blood dripped from his abdomen and his hand slowly slipped out of Sam's, dangling lifelessly from the side of his body.

Dean was gone.

Sam's tears came rushing forth even faster now. He clung desperately to the limp body of his brother as he sobbed uncontrollably. He almost couldn't believe it. Dean had died so many times before. Someway, somehow, Sam always found a way to bring him back, and vice versa. But this time, it was final. It felt final; and Sam knew that. His brother, the man that practically raised him, the boy that pulled him out of a burning house when be was a baby... Was gone. And he was left to pick up the pieces.

Suddenly, an ominous, blinding light filled the room. It forced Sam to shield his eyes and made him squint before he recognised the figure standing at the centre of the glowing ray.

"...Jack?", He asked as figure emerged from the light.

"Hello, Sam", the figure said as it revealed itself and confirmed his theory.

"What are you... What are you doing here?", He asked in a confused tone.

Jack, without speaking, turned his head to look directly at Dean and subsequently walked towards him.

"You came here to heal him right?", Sam asked desperately. "Can you heal him? Of course you can heal him, you're God".

"I'm not here to heal him, Sam", Jack said sorrowfully.

Sam stepped backwards, away from his brother and turned his attention to Jack, "I thought that was a reaper's job".

"I made an exception".

In another realm that existed in the same physical space, a fabric of reality that Sam couldn't see, Dean stood infront of his own body. He stared at his brother with a hopeless gaze as a tear rolled down his cheek. Jack extended his hand to Dean, and he embraced death without protest. All Sam saw was Jack extend his hand into empty space as he looked back at him and the room was once again flooded in a blinding white light.

"Goodbye, Jack... Goodbye, Dean", Sam said as the light faded away. When it had fully cleared, Jack was gone; and he could feel the absence of Dean's spirit.

Later...

Sam looked over the pyre with Dean's body underneath, shakily holding a lighter between his fingers. Eileen laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as he let it go, igniting the wood. Sam started to cry again as Eileen pulled him in closer, "He's in a better place now", she said.

In Heaven, Dean looks around. He admires the golden horizon that surrounds everything and how beautiful it all is. Interrupting the moment, a light fills the room. So bright, it could blind someone, and Dean winces as he holds his arms up to cover his eyes. "Who... Who are you?", Dean asks.

"I am the one who gripped you tight, and raised you from perdition".

"...Cas?".

"Hello, Dean", Castiel said as he revealed himself.

Sam stands in a small room, looking himself in the mirror while Jody helps him with his bowtie, "You look much better in a suit than in flannel and denim", she says jokingly.

Sam chuckles lightly as he turns his attention to a framed picture on his desk, a picture of Dean, "He should be here", he says as he sighs.

"He is", she says as she lays her hand gently on his heart, "in here". She extends her arm as she leads Sam down the aisle, and at the end of the chapel is Eileen waiting in a beautiful white dress.

Dean stands in disbelief, looking at Cas for the first time in 5 years.

Cas steps forward, "Dean... What I said the last time we saw each other--".

"--I love you too, Cas".

"...What?".

"I love you too".

Cas approaches him nervously but Dean grabs him with conviction and kisses him passionately as Cas reciprocates and places a hand on his waist and another around his neck.

Years have passed, Sam stands in a hospital room with several nurses while Eileen sits tired on a bed. "Push, Eileen! Push!", Sam says as he holds her hand. She struggles and lets out a loud, painful scream, before silence fills the air; and is eventually broken by the cry of a newborn baby.

"It's a boy", the doctor says.

"What are you gonna name him?", The nurse asks.

Sam pauses and looks at Eileen as he turns back to the nurse, "...Dean", he says as tears of joy fill his eyes.

Dean and Cas lie in bed. Dean stares with a faraway gaze at the ceiling while Cas runs his hand up and down his chest, "What're you thinking about?", Cas asks.

"Just... Where he is. What he's doing".

"I wonder too, sometimes... But time works differently up here, it's faster. He'll be along soon enough".

"Yeah", Dean says as he takes Cas in his arms and closes the gap between their lips.

Meanwhile on Earth, even more time has passed. An elderly Sam Winchester struggles to breathe as he lies in his bed. His son, Dean Winchester II, takes his hand and comforts him. "It's ok... You can go now", he says. Sam smiles one last time as he closes his eyes and his heart stops beating.

In Heaven, Dean stops the Impala at a bridge and steps out. He looks out into the sky, admiring the view; before he hears someone approaching from behind, "Heya, Sammy", he says as he turns around to greet his brother. Sam embraces him in a long, warm hug as a song plays from the Impala's radio.

♪ Carry On My Wayward Son ♪

"Ugh, I hate this song", Sam says as he reaches to change the station.

Dean swats his hand away, "Driver picks the music..."

♪ There'll Be Peace When You Are Done ♪

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Say it", Dean commands, "Driver picks the music...".

♪ Lay Your Weary Head To Rest ♪

"...Shotgun shuts his cakehole", Sam says unenthusiastically. They look around and notice that their friends and family have joined them. Cas, Jack, Bobby, John, Mary, Joe, Ellen, Crowley, Adam, Garth... Everyone.

Dean places his arm around Sam's shoulders as they stare out into the sunset together, leaving their past in the past and looking forward to the future, their journey having come full circle.

♪ Don't You Cry No More ♪

Masterlist

Fandom List

Taglist

Tags: @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @castielinanutshell

[pipebombsabitsuki]

i dreamt that we were in a thick forest, in the middle of some national park. the people i was with, strangers to me.

the dream was an usual hiking day (I've never gone hiking in the physical world) through the woods up until it became dark. we were still hiking when a thunderstorm started.

then an entity seemed to manifest.

in the waking world, i chose the designation "tree of perdition" for said entity.

upon its appearance, the dream became a chase sequence. throughout the chase, I was able to observe and learn a number of details.

when "dormant", the entity resembled a leafless, single individual of the populus tremula species. medium sized, with evenly distributed branches, yet of twisted appearance. the organism will be referred to by the common denominator "tree".

in its dormant state, the tree remained immobile, and completely undistinguishable from any common tree, apart from the absence of leaves.

as it seemed, the tree only became "active" during thunderstorms at night. these conditions made it so it could remain inactive for entire decades. when active, the tree's branches were rapidly growing out, and retracting into the trunk in a disorganized way. the branches didn't grow back in the same position, but rather remaining ever changing in constant protrusion and retraction. not unlike the lighting rays which come out of a tesla coil.

the tree would remain immobile until lightning struck. upon the hearing of thunder, people in the dream had to begin running as fast as they could, as right before the light appeared, the tree would displace by unknown means next to the closest living animal. this was a constant. thunder would struck, and in that few second's window between thunder and lighting, it could move.

if constantly running, you could easily get away from the tree before it caught you. otherwise, it's branches would all begin to grow into your direction, burying in your body and slowly lifting you off the ground as your blood begins to be drained, only to be released when the last drop has been consumed: A lifeless corpse.

during one of the running sequences, I remember a voice explaining the tree as "it's a tree, an event and a phenomenon, all at the same time."

me and the other two survivors devised a plan to take down the entity. using kerosene from a camping light, we set a trap: We would purposefully influence its appearance right on the puddle of kerosene, and then burn it.

the plan succeeded, setting the entity ablaze. it then uttered a terrifying, high pitched screech. (Vague reference: Evangelion 1.11. movie Ramiel's death scene.)

after the "scream", it began to frantically teleport in an erratic manner, seemingly with no particular purpose or pattern, violating the thunder-and-lighting rule, and spreading the fire throughout the forest, essentially creating a wildfire.

last recorded memory: the blazing tree stands before me, it's burning branches ever growing. we're both of us alone. there's fire all around us. the tree remains in the same place. clearly active, yet maintaining its position. it's looking at me. i can feel it. it has no eyes. it has no face. but it's looking right into my eyes. without eyes. without face. it's looking at me, as it burns to death.

First recorded instance: [??/??/23]

This dream has only one recorded instance.

Update: Picture for reference. Vague resemblance.