#{prodigil}

[nonempyreal]

continued from here.

"What the hell happened? Hit on the head by what?" A baseball bat? A freight train? André the Giant from the top rope? The pain hammering around in her skull is unlike any of the times she's woken up from a prophetic dream, so that's ruled out for now -- unless they're getting worse now.

Haven scrapes herself up off the back seat with a groan, the daylight assaulting her eyes causing her to squint while they adjust, trying to make sense of the current situation the best she can. The last thing she remembers is the doodle she drew on a diner napkin the evening prior. Everything after that, including dropping like a sack of potatoes from a spade to the dome, has been effectively powerwashed out of her memory.

"Not an option. I left for a reason." Not unless they were sadistic enough to drive her all the way to Kentucky with an unevaluated head injury. "How about, I dunno, fucking urgent care so they can check me for a concussion?"

@prodigil

[picksmusic]

@prodigil from here.

" dude. it is rank in here. " a SNIFF rumples the bridge of his nose & bends his lips into a deep frown. brine & ammonia mingle together like the clearance end of the seafood aisle at the supermarket. in spite of its photographs tamped against the wall, little signals of a temporary home ( a bit too much like every mildewy motel room with its mystery-stain mattresses for dean to address head-on ), it's the kind of habitat that occupies a liminal space. dripping rust smears on bare, stoic concrete grey.

dean meanders past the fish carcass, shoving his flanneled sleeve over his mouth to stifle the stink.

a rack of cassettes in his own clumsy handwriting sits beneath a picture of himself with ... a pretty hot gal. his fingertips tip through the plastic sheaths before he thrusts up a hand. " fake me has crap taste, " he declares, a tape between thumb & forefinger. celine dion's name scrawls across the front. " sappy chick tunes, " he grumbles, tossing it aside to join the pile.

" ---------- what've you got? "

[fbiartist]

@prodigil​ liked for a starter.

“....this isn’t your fault, you know?” He was being weird again, his face pinched as he cleaned and stitched up the wound on her arm. Yes, she got bit by a vampire. An actual vampire. It was weird and it hurt, but she shoved a stake through the guy’s chest. So that worked. And it still shook her up. 

[soulmissed]

@prodigil​​, sc

august peers up at the old, colossal house: the furious wobble of its shutters, the bizarre ornament gracing its door. (he wonders whether his pocket knife could handle a monster. unhuman. otherworldly. the very notion sends an icy chill down his spine.) instinctively, his hand presses into sam’s palm. a way to seek comfort when fear robs his voice. 

[phantombs]

Cường looks over, quivering, draped silent along that lonely carseat. There is a stirring interest that glazes over his face as that questions comes -- tentatively spoken, touched with a history Sam hasn’t heart to say -- and Cường is too privy to it. Finds it. Grasps within in the haystack and shimmies out the pin. Ah. Has the dreamer want to prick this hunter with it? “Okay.” No. He’s shimmying now, all long, knobbish legs. “Show it to me.” And angling over, he settles neatly in by the flush of Sam’s arm. The cover goes. Ahem. “Để ý. The first words it gives you: để ý. Careful. But you don’t listen, do you?” It’s hardly an insult; Cường hasn’t an ill-mannered bone in his body, but ah, that graceless tongue...! My, is this book aged. “Don’t give the words you see here voice. The dead are lost. Say the names as offered, and you’ll welcome them home. To you. In you. Do you have room for guests?”

Cường sniffles, brows furrowing, forehead digging into his shoulder. Ow. This book is so... “Don’t take on anymore guests. They’re not fond of sharing. They’ll fill you until you burst. You’re using a different detergent.”

@prodigil​ continued from here.

[blotspare]

@prodigil​ from — x.

They should react more to HIS reaction —— but they don’t.  Yuu just stares at him, eyes guarded and prepared, waiting for him to either strike out or be of assistance, and prepared for either reality.  He slams on the break, and they sputter to a stop.  Dark eyes go more suspicious. 

“I’m Yuu,” the say, grateful that the orphanage had insisted on such strenuous English lessons — this would be a nightmare if they couldn’t explain themselves.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.  I needed to hide in a hurry, and your car was the first thing I saw.”  Nakamura doesn’t know that they can pick car locks, so he wouldn’t have thought to check vehicles for them.  The idea of GOING BACK to that is frankly horrifying, but the alternative is getting kidnapped by a stranger, which seems similarly ill - advised.  They think about the pocketknife in their hoodie and wonder at the likelihood of them being able to take down Paul Bunyan here with it, if they have to, and decide that their odds are distinctively NOT GOOD.  Maybe if they assure him that they haven’t fucked up his car, he’ll be less likely to murder them.  “The lock still works; I didn’t break it to get in.  I’m not an amateur.”

[lastofmars]

@prodigil​

There are certain levels of indignities J’onn has learned adjust to with his time as a hunter. Cheap motels, long rides on the Greyhound, hitchhiking with his last two dollars in cash in his wallet. Filthy motel rooms and the ugly, dark underbelly of small towns and closed communities, too-old coffee and days on end with nothing to eat but cheap instant ramen.

Though perhaps his least favorite of all are the ones associated with his monstrous side; mainly vulnerability associated with changing shape. Tearing off his skin, growing and shrinking his bones, feeling every bit the monster most would accuse him of being if they saw what was only within his nature to do. It was why he so very rarely indulged in shifting outside of necessity, it made him weak and open to attack. And more importantly, it made him feel revolting.

J’onn has never quite learned to move past that well of shame associated with his kind.

So to be caught mid-shift with his metaphorical pants down is, as one could imagine, a worst-case scenario for him, and one that he’s not all-too-thrilled to have come to fruition. He freezes in the middle of reshaping himself, fingers dug deep into a layer of skin that he was in the process of tearing off.

Were he in a less compromising position, he would have a great deal more generosity to be walked in on unprompted. As it is, he is feeling less than kindly, and without his vocal chords being reformed properly yet the most he can manage is a distorted utterance at the intruder.

“Get out.”

Of course he’s already turning away to protect what’s left of his dignity, half of his skin piled around his ankles on the thick plastic lining laid out on the floor for future disposal. He is shaking with rage, his stance instinctively moving to that of a defensive position, even with him being half-formed and raw. He will, at least, give this much of a warning.

[yovrstruely]

@prodigil​ liked for a starter.

“This vending machine is fucked, it just needs a...” A sharp kick to the machine’s sweet spot and the chips fell down. He just offered a quick smile to the tall man with a sheepish shrug, it was obvious he spent a little too much time in the library. It was the only one he knew of that let you have food and drinks in there, at least, a certain part of it. He put a bill in and peered in to get a good look at his options, “I shoulda thought about this before I put the money in, now I’m committed...” Another smile for the stranger, then back to the machine.