bollock | OPEN POST

By appointment only, the door says. John runs his fingers over the glass, glancing once over his shoulder to look down the street, before twisting the knob and pushing it open with clear disregard for rules or common courtesy. Zed said that in her vision she'd been standing in an antique store with jade green doors, spider webs and dust with high, glass ceilings. There had been monsters creeping around the edges of a single flickering light and the urgent calling of the most nasal voice she'd ever heard in her life.

It wasn't much to go on, but barely 20 minutes of wandering and he'd felt an inexorable pull towards this place.

Arcana Cabana. It's cute. Bit kitchy, but-- John touches everything within easy reach, fingers glancing off metal and wood, paint and plaster and oh, yes. He comes to a halt in front of an old oil lamp, just nestled haphazardly in with the rest of the accumulated junk. He's not sure what it is, exactly, but the lamp feels very, very nasty. It's not just a piece of nothing, it's the real deal.

"Alright, luv," he mutters to himself, forgetting the rest of the shop for a moment to circle the table that the lamp is perched on, "Now we're getting somewhere interesting."

Edited 2015-11-30 05:22 (UTC)

[Continued from here!]

The little push, the power of intent before, that was one thing. The rock solid give that to me now sends a visible shiver down John's spine. More in memory of pain than anything, though he can feel the magic resistance stirring in his blood again.

Thank the gods for hard liquor, though, because nothing hurts when he's this far into a bottle. He grins sloppily, watching the bartender come and go again. The little gutpunch of a command makes him vindictive, and he latches onto the things Kilgrave doesn't say. Like some kind of whiskey shark, and the word Jessica is chum he just let swirl out into open waters. Not a good idea. Jessica wanted him to be a hero, John notes. He clearly tried it, for Jessica.

Just sets John's old romantic heart right aflutter.

"Aww, mate. You know the bauble didn't work, right? That's the story. Never could make whatsherface fall back in love." He puts a consoling hand haphazardly on Kilgrave's shoulder just to see if he'll knock it off. What his reaction will be. "But there's always other birds, hey?"

He shouldn't need the medallion either way, but now John is starting to wonder if maybe this Jessica doesn't know a good sound ward or two, herself. Which in turn makes him wonder how he'll fare, if Kilgrave ever gets his mits on a little bit of magical aid for his crooning.

He'd rather not find out. John drops his spent cigarette butt into the glass he's no longer drinking from now that he's upgraded to his own private nicked bottle, and shakes his head a bit. "Did I not give you my business card? Rude of me, that. You should come sometime and see what I get up to, you'd like it. Gets the blood going. It's usually a little more exciting than a spot of attempted domestic homicide."

Edited 2015-12-01 10:47 (UTC)

[Continued from here]

Since almost all of Grandpa Thomas Price's journals regarding his occult dabblings were destroyed (for good reason, he got himself stuck in a hell-dimension), the Prices tended to outsource for their mystical consultation, which is why Alex was swinging by to meet a hopefully-dressed magician.

Most of the charms were road-witch made, and "Aunt" Rose, the family friend/slash mostly-friendly-hitchhiking ghost had been able to identify only two of them. Rose tended not to run with the more malevolent magic users, so Alex was suspecting most of these things were bad news, maybe even a curse or two that explained why the guy carrying them was dead.

Right up John's alley.

"Okay, everyone," Alex said before leaving his car. "You remember the rules. No talking, no celebrating, no making noise until I give the all-clear. And no leaving the bag- not even if you don't think you'll get caught."

"HAIL!" replied the four Aeslin mice he had in his messenger bag. Sorry John. Family rule. They go everywhere a Price goes.

After bribes of cheese and cake to keep the mice silent, he got out of his car, and went to what he was hoping was the right door.

Edited (html fuckup) 2015-12-04 11:19 (UTC)

John's a busy lad these days, what with the Rising Darkness lurking around every corner: magic has been steadily growing stronger, and the walls that once held everything steadfast in its place - heaven and hell and all those other boundaries in between - have long since started to crumble.

Which is John's very convenient excuse for why he's in the backwoods of Mississippi at a tiny church in the middle of the night, just being as blasphemous as humanly possible. He's got half the floor and walls painted with a grotesque mixture of goat's blood, horse semen and Home Depot paint, occult spirals and binding sigils that would give half the congregation the vapors in the daylight, including his incredibly inelegant fuck off sigil - which is yes, shockingly, something of his own design. It's fairly good at keeping nosy townspeople out, though nothing more dangerous.

Which is the goal. He's trying to lure the wayward spirits that have been ravaging the small town's catholic sinners, killing them with their own vices - mostly the alcoholics and adulterous. He's got booze and cigarettes at his disposal, an attempt to attract the nasty into targeting him (but also just for fun), but he's seriously considering dropping trou and adding a bit of self-love into the sinful mix because it's been two hours and he's dying of boredom.

"Come on!" he shouts, to no one in particular, stubbing out his tenth cigarette on the preacher's bible, laid out at the pulpit which he has already spilled half a shot of cheap whiskey on top of, "There's no bleeding way anyone in this town is a juicier sinner than I am."

He should have brought a deck of cards to play with to pass the time.

For Dave Stutler!

For Kilgrave!

no subject

For Castiel!