#prodigil

[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. 

[chaosent]

           𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁  𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻  :                    @prodigil​​ .

It’s the laugh that apparently startles Sam’s otherwise impeccable stance.  Not his own laugh,  nonono,  but the clown’s :  he laughs something powerful and rough,  a roar with an undertone of rust.  The Joker,  observant man that he is,  has picked up all the possible reactions to that barking sound of his ;  out of them all,  from the quaking little old ladies to grown ass men shitting themselves,  Samuel Winchester looks the least freaked out.  That’s not boring,  that’s new.  And he’s a big guy,  too :  poor startled Sammy proved himself a neat puncher,  splitting the Joker’s upper lip and giving him a taste of a relatively copious trickle of his own blood darkening trickly the red gash of paint over his mouth.  Sam’s knuckles are red,  too,  either smeared with blood or clown makeup.  But the Joker,  hyena-like,  laughs it off.  And poor Sammy begins to freak out a little bit !  He sees it in the way his broad shoulders shrink a bit,  and the light hits the pooling bark-brown of his eyes a bit differently,  and his slightly wrinkling cheek when he sucks nervously the inner walls of his mouth.  

The Joker sees it,  and stops laughing all together,  as if the joke was never really that funny anyway.   ‘  Ah-ah-ah  ’   he drawls on each sound disapprovingly,  like a disappointed parent.  Sam keeps him at arm’s length with an old machete that lost most of its sharpness,  but likely still does a wonderful job at cracking bones and tearing muscles,  the clown bets.   ‘  Sammysammysammy ... Sammy.  ’  Joker’s steps stretch like a panther’s around the other ;  feral and delighted as a panther would be around its freshly hunted meal.  

 ‘  Let’s not,  uh,  fuck this up.  Look,  I like you.  Big knife  - maybe a bit too big,  but I appreciate the sentiment -  and a good grip.  Wannabe heroes these days don’t even know where to stick it ...  the,  huh,  the knife I mean.  ’

A steely,  nasal chuckle escapes him.   

‘  We both know you’re not a hero,  yeah,  Sammy?  I’ve got a dog nose for rotten bastards and breakable things.  I smell the worms.  More,  ah,  street rat,  are ya?  ’

[hraunwyf]

@prodigil / cont.

"hey."

times like these, loki worries. she always worries, it seems, and maybe too much about sam: she's wondered if he ever feels smothered by it, even if she never sees him except when he comes... back, not home, because as much as she'd like him to think of here as home, she shouldn't make assumptions. shouldn't be so bold as to think she can carve out this home for anyone just because she managed it for herself. (how hard did she have to work to do that? how could she ever measure what it would take for somebody else?)

shouldn't make assumptions, no. but it doesn't stop loki being grateful that he can take a little comfort in her, and worrying when she does something wrong. she isn't afraid of him, and she doesn't think she could ever be. worse things than sam winchester with his soft grey-gold eyes go bump in the night, no matter what he thinks of himself. like her. there's a reason nothing has ever followed him here.

here, they're safe. with her, sam should always be safe, and never flinch from her. she would never hurt him. "i know you're not, sweetheart," she says, reaching to tuck one of those brown locks back behind his ear. "it's okay. i know. sometimes things just come back, and it happens."

it'd be a lie for her to pretend that she's never been frightened sam might suddenly be disgusted with her and leave, and that sometimes in the long absences she's terrified she's done something wrong and he'll never turn up on her doorstep again. but he didn't put those fears there. worse things than sam winchester, with his soft grey-gold eyes, and his rough but cautious hands, and how he never so much as raises his voice to her, did that.

loki has to get on her tiptoes and stretch far to press her lips to the edge of his jaw. he could use a shave. "it's okay," she murmurs again, and she can only pray that one day there won't be any doubt that it's true.