#talentforlying

Blood Related Prompts [ ARRIVE ] (for jake!)

Jake is pretty sure he shows up at John’s place covered in blood from head to toe far more than John does his. (Scratch that, it’s just a plain old fact that he does. Whether or not it’s Jake’s own blood, there’s about a 50/50 chance.) Tonight, the blood isn’t his. Most of it, at least. Whatever wounds some of said blood may or may not have come from would have, hypothetically, long since been healed by the suit.

Really, there’s no reason for him to be here. He doesn’t need stitching up, and while tonight was a rough one, it’s not the worst he’s ever had. He’d be fine without company. And yet, he finds himself standing on the doorstep, actually knocking, rather than just waltzing in like he owns the place.

That’s about as far as the politeness goes.

The moment John opens the door, Jake’s pushing his way inside. “Need a shower,” is his excuse. “Your place was closer.” Not technically a lie, and walking home like this isn’t something he’d like to do—that tends to draw unwanted attention to them—nor is getting the front seat of his cab covered in blood. Jake heads straight for the bathroom, not bothering to wait for any possible protests. “Grab me somethin’ I can wear, ay? Don’t think I’ve left anythin’ a’mine here, and m’pretty sure these clothes are fucked.”

The word hits Jon in the chest, knocks him off-kilter. It's a word that's been thrown at him a few times now, and one that he recognises that he's internalised and is probably beginning to accept. It's often one of his first thoughts when he wakes up in the morning: I'm one of the monsters now. Followed almost immediately by: there's so many stories out there, I want to devour them all.

He tells himself that he's doing what needs to be done, that he's uniquely situated as the only one who can stop these rituals. If that means being a monster... isn't that a small price to pay?

So he's sort of slowly coming to terms with the M-word.

This is the first time that it's been offered as an almost positive thing, something that they can share. And, look, Jon's known John for a long time. It sort of helps to think that they're sort of in this together, even if Jon hasn't shared all ( or any ) of the specifics of what's going on.

"Yeah," he says, on a heavy sigh.

His nicotine cravings have been replaced by a similar, even more consuming craving for information. He longs to reach into John's head and pull out his deepest secrets, his darkest shame. The compulsion settles comfortably on his tongue, spreading like melting chocolate. "Tell me, John, what's the most monstrous --"

He cuts himself off, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist. Maybe not quite ready to accept the M-word fully. "Apologies," he says, shamed, "I'm -- it doesn't matter. It won't happen again." It probably will. The compulsion feels bitter and tetchy in his mouth; It doesn't like to be denied. ( Is it an It, or is it him? These days, he can't tell the difference. )

It's a very specific sort of brutal, listening to a baby wail from halfway across the plane. He understands, in a practical sort of way, all the reasons flying is probably just as brutal for the baby. But weeping Jesus would he kill for some peace and quiet. Singh wishes he'd managed to catch a ride with a bigger military transpo. It's shit seating and louder in one of those, but in a familiar sort of way that doesn't grate the same way commercial flights do.

Maybe his seat mate had the right idea with that G+T. Singh is about ready to start drinking on this flight himself, just to take the edge off.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing there and then his temple in an attempt to stave off his budding headache.

With nothing else to occupy himself with - stupid of him to think he'd be able to sleep, clearly - his eyes drift to the half-done crossword the man beside him has open.

ASKBOX MEMES ! | always accepting

That was what she was MEANT to do, right? The world had dealt her a SHITTY hand of cards and the best she could do was thank them for dealing something her way at all. The entirety of her life was dizzying, the type of thing that made her head go numb whenever she gave TOO MUCH thought into the situation at hand. Wasn't it better to simply exist beyond EVERY type of plain? To give into whatever sense was coming over her and to let her nails dig int.

ALL THAT MATTERED was that she was alive. Or so she'd keep telling herself.

"I think you'll survive," the words cooed from her lips with ease, the ever present tilt of her head as she looked him over. JENNIFER had accepted the fact that there were people out in the world that were meant to destroy demons, that were meant to destroy her. A part of her couldn't help but want it. AWFUL, really.

Something in her had wanted to disappear into the universe more than others had. Each passing breath felt more like a curse than something she had actually wanted. And yet her heart still BEAT in one way or another, something she couldn't help but let cast over her spine.

"Stop." Mulder's voice is firm, unmoving. He disregards John's attempts to force him away and instead focuses on his vitals. Keeping a steady hand on Constantine's chest, he feels the sporadic rhythm slowly begin to find some sense of normalcy. The agent checks his watch, continuing to keep level breathing so that John has something to latch onto.

"You need to just focus on your breathing right now." He instructs, eyes moving up to check the other man's pupils, "Breathe in for three, out for five. One... two... three..." As Constantine follows along, he checks the texture of his skin, the color of his face. Life seems to slowly be coming back into him, thankfully, but whatever it was that spooked him spooked him hard. Mulder had never seen John shock that white before. To be quite honest, there wasn't anything in the world he ever thought could rattle good ol' John Constantine. Not like this. Not ever.

does it count as canine coded if he'll bark