#(prose.)

[brutalperception]

closed starter for @loudbarks !

ben kind of HATES tour. he doesn't like talking to anyone he doesn't know. so forgive him, for not wanting to talk. he's fucking around with the radio at the front of the bus when he notices them. he knows technically it's rude, but the best he can offer is a cursory look over his shoulder, and a pained shrug. he doesn't ask. he doesn't need to.

[likeorpheus]

Starter for @peonette

L.A Union Station hums like something wild and alive— loud, chaotic, and constant. A low, breathing kind of motion, like being inside the ribcage of a giant. Footsteps echo against tiled floors worn smooth with time, announcements blur into the vaulted ceilings, and the late morning light filters in through high windows in long, pale gold beams that catch on dust and movement from each corner. There’s a romance to it if you’re looking for one. Francis is. Maybe out of necessity. Otherwise, the very obvious loitering, homelessness, and panhandling would sever their resolve. It was difficult living in Los Angeles. 

They stand for a moment longer than they need to just inside the terminal, guitar case slung over one shoulder, the strap digging in where it always does. The rest of their life — or what qualifies as it right now — is packed into a single worn bag at their hip. A camera tucked carefully between folded shirts, cords knotted together like veins, a small keyboard wedged in at an angle that probably isn’t good for it. They don’t check. They don’t want to start worrying about the details. They feel like maybe they’re running from something. 

It’s strange, the way grief follows them. It’s a second pulse under the skin. Their brother’s absence isn’t a single clean wound; it’s a thousand small distortions. The way silence lingers too long. The way certain thoughts don’t finish themselves. They keep expecting to turn and find him somewhere just behind them. A coffee in hand, a cigarette already between his teeth at 8:05 A.M. Forget it. Just forget it. 

But Toni Sharpe, their good friend, had said it so clearly. Go north. There’s something there for you. Maybe they could try to start over for a minute. 

So they board.

The train smells faintly metallic, layered with coffee and old upholstery. It’s quieter than the station, but not by much — voices low, bags shifting, the subtle clatter of movement settling into place. It’s congested. Seats are difficult to navigate at first. Francis moves down the aisle with that same unhurried energy they carry everywhere, scanning for something that feels right rather than just empty. They pass rows of paired seats before spotting it — a small table between two facing benches, sunlight cutting across it at an angle. 

They slide in, easing the guitar case down carefully beside them, tucking it close. Their bag lands at their feet. For a moment, they just sit there, hands resting loosely on the table, letting the movement of the train settle into their bones before it’s even started moving. Outside, the platform stretches out — people hugging, waving, lingering because they'll miss their loved ones. Francis watches it all without really focusing. Their mind drifts.

It always does now. Everywhere. All the goddamn time.

They think about music, but in fragments. Chords half-formed. Melodies that never quite land. The idea that maybe, somewhere up north, something will click back into place. That whatever broke open inside them didn’t take everything with it. That there’s still something worth following.

They don’t realize how long they’ve been staring out the window until movement in the aisle catches their attention.

Someone’s pausing. Looking.

There’s that small, familiar tension — the quiet, awkward dance of someone searching for a seat that isn’t taken, or worse, deciding whether to impose. Francis shifts slightly, eyes lifting, and that’s when they see her properly.

Her mouth, first. The shape of it — something thoughtful there, or maybe just tired. Then her nose, the subtle line of it. Oh, and then her eyes — Francis catches them last, and they linger there a second longer than they mean to. Honeyed, exuberant. There’s something in them. It’s enough. She’s cute. They’re pathetic. 

Francis shifts their hand slightly on the table, a small, quiet gesture. 

“There’s space here,” they say, voice soft but steady, nodding toward the empty seat across from them.

[bri4raes]

@angelrisen sent to dean di laurentis, I need a blonde man to harrass

" The fact that you come in here, during legs day, to harrass me, must tell how much you are annoyed by other guys, blondie. " A smirk appears on his lips as he looked at her while his blue eyes are locked on her. " Not that I am complaining. Your presence is required sometimes. Especially when it falters my roomates brains. Gives me the time to bomb my torso and show you what a real man is. There need to be more than harrassing me around to make me mad, Lena. "

[siicksin]

The  file  tells  the  story  cleanly  enough.  Blunt  trauma.  Surgical  repair.  Stabilization.  Recovery  trajectory  marked  “on  schedule,”  with  asterisks  in  places  only  someone  trained  to  look  for  deviation  would  bother  to  notice.  Leon  Grey  doesn't  bother  with  the  asterisks  out  loud.  He  already  knows  what  they  mean.  Professional  hockey  injury.  Game  footage  notes  appended.  Incident  classified  by  the  team  as  “on-ice  altercation,”  though  that  is  a  polite,  institutional  way  of  describing  what  is  essentially  a  controlled  lapse  into  violence.  A  brutal  fight.  Leon's  eyes  linger  on  the  notation  longer  than  necessary.

Chase  Fontaine  did  not  just  get  injured  during  play;  he  got  injured  during  contact  that  was  personal  enough  to  override  discipline.  That  matters  –  it  always  does.  Leon  sets  the  file  down  precisely  as  the  door  opens.  He  doesn't  look  up  immediately,  not  out  of  indifference,  but  because  he  has  learned  that  first  impressions  are  often  contaminated  by  the  body's  automatic  responses.  Better  to  read  the  patient  through  paper  first.  Less  interference  and  less  noise.  Still,  he  is  aware  of  Chase  before  he  sees  him.

Presence,  again.  That  same  dense,  athletic  certainty  that  fills  a  room  like  it  belongs  there  by  default.  The  kind  of  physicality  that  does  not  shrink  in  medical  environments,  even  after  surgery,  even  after  injury.  Leon  hates  just  how  noticeable  it  is.  He  looks  up  where  Chase  stands  in  the  doorway,  recovered  enough  to  walk  without  assistance  but  still  carrying  the  faint,  disciplined  stiffness  of  someone  recently  rebuilt.  There  is  restraint  in  the  way  he  moves,  subtle  compensation  patterns  Leon  recognizes  immediately.  The  body  protecting  what  it  has  learned  can  still  fail.  Good,  cautious  recovery  behavior. 

Leon's  gaze  catches  on  something  else  before  he  can  stop  it.  The  quiet  tension  in  Chase's  frame  that  does  not  belong  entirely  to  healing  but  to  memory,  to  impact,  to  what  happened  before  the  injury  that  put  him  here.  Leon  has  already  read  it  in  the  report,  fight  on  ice.  It  wasn't  an  accidental  collision  or  normal  game  contact,  but  a  decision  made  in  motion  –  anger  translated  into  biomechanics.  Gloves  dropped  or  not,  the  body  still  remembers  intent.  Leon  finds  that  part  of  the  file  more  interesting  than  the  fracture  itself,  not  ethically  but  clinically.  He  stands  slowly,  adjusting  nothing  about  his  posture  because  he  does  not  need  to  appear  more  composed  than  he  already  is.  “Chase  Fontaine,”  Leon  says  evenly.  A  pause.  His  eyes  track  the  athlete  in  full  now,  methodical,  assessing  alignment,  gait,  subtle  guarding  around  the  surgical  site.  “You  were  injured  during  an  on-ice  altercation,”  he  continues,  voice  measured.  “A  fight.”  Not  a  question  but  a  confirmation  framed  as  neutrality.

Leon  steps  slightly  closer,  not  into  intrusion,  but  simply  into  clarity.  Better  angle,  with  a  better  read  on  posture  mechanics.  “The  surgery  corrected  the  immediate  damage,”  he  adds.  “But  I'm  more  interested  in  what  led  to  it.”  A  beat.  His  gaze  lingers  a  fraction  too  long  on  Chase's  hands,  then  returns  to  his  face  with  deliberate  control.  “Platers  don't  usually  escalate  to  that  level  without  a  reason  that  carries  over,”  Leon  says  quietly.  "Bodies  don't  forget  those  reasons  even  after  they've  been  repaired.  He  pauses,  a  silence  filled  with  the  subtle  hum  of  fluorescent  lights.  Something  in  him  resists  the  next  part,  not  professionally  but  personally  –  because  Chase  is  distracting  in  a  way  Leon  has  no  interest  in  admitting  out  loud.  Not  just  medically  or  physically,  there  was  something  in  the  controlled  violence  of  him  that  pressed  against  Leon's  usual  detachment,  like  a  variable  he  can't  neatly  isolates  it.  It  irritates  him;  in  the  same  breath,  it  holds  his  attention  far  longer  than  it  should. 

Leon  exhales  once  through  his  nose,  then  continues,  tone  returning  to  clinical  steadiness.  “Before  we  talk  about  returning  to  play,”  he  says,  “we're  going  to  have  to  talk  about  the  incident  itself.  I  need  to  understand  whether  what  broke  your  body  was  a  single  moment,  or  something  you've  been  carrying  onto  the  ice  for  longer  than  that.”

@skippingframes

[immortalhe]

@omenshe sent, babydoll, you and your slutty curly hair and I have GOT to talk. You cannot just whip those locks around like that. You just make it so... grabbable. pls persephone get a god damn grip

a smirk appears on his face as he rose an eye from the book he was reading while his attention turn to her. he know what he was doing with his hair.

he know the effect he had on her.

he usually had it with everyone. that's how he gains people trust. his face. he charms them in with his cheschire smile and his dark eyes, lures them in until he had them at the palm of his hand, lean his head to the side until he just look at them and turn them into his next human blood bag.

with her though, when she was mad, he just had to lie down on her lap and had her stroke his hair for every little fight of non sense stop.

leaning closer to her, he rose from his seat as he get down on his knees while his eyes bores into her purple orbs, adding. " what can i say? i know you love to grab on them. and they are very soft when your fingers pass throught them. " hands on her waist, he purs slowly. " go ahead. grab onto them. cause i plan on making you feel good now. and it is not your irritated voice that will stop me, darling. "

[graspedribs]

continued from here for @glowslikegolds !

he shoudln't think it's so funny but he does. he falls way more than he likes to let on. so maybe he's a little clumsy when he's this hungover. but hey, who cares !! what's one more fall ?? can't be worse than anything else he's done – and at least now he's having fun !! teddy knows cooper like totally doesn't get it. how could anyone ?? it's not like anyone really gets it unless they do. unless they know what it means to be flying through the air like they'll never have to come down. he knows cooper doesn't actually like the cold. for someone who spends all of his time on ice, it's kind of crazy that he doesn't like the snow. especially when teddy loves the snow. he thrives in the cold, like it's what he was built for. maybe he was – maybe he loves the snow more than he should – he doesn't really know. but whatever. he knocks on his helmet like it makes the most sense in the world, legs outstretched and covered in snow. it's funny. but he takes cooper's hand anyways, and pops a foot out of his bindings to head over to the lodge. it's not too crowded thank god. so teddy doesn't have to worry about finding somewhere to sit while coop patches him up. "you sayin' that you don't think i'm pretty anymore when i eat shit ??" a beat, "man, what a bummer." he offers a shit eating grin, and he shakes his head. "yeah – coop– i'm alright." vision blurs at the edges, but he's fine. right ?? "unless being not alright means you keep playing doctor." he smirks, "then i'm fatally injured."

[punkzombie]

The party’s spilled out into the front garden, half the street pulsing with the fuzz of a cheap speaker and the slosh of bad beer. Kerry’s hands still buzz from the set he played inside—bass low and heavy, rattling down to his bones. His skin’s damp with sweat, shirt clinging to the dip of his spine, and every breath he takes tastes like cigarettes and cheap whiskey. The hallway stinks of weed, someone’s cologne, something burning in the kitchen no one’s dealt with. He doesn’t care. He likes this kind of mess. It reminds him of old rehearsal rooms and worse decisions.

He pushes his way through a knot of bodies, stepping over someone half-asleep on the stairs, sidestepping a girl with glitter tears and a cracked phone. His mouth is dry, jaw tight with it, and whatever bottle he’d left behind is definitely long gone. Typical. He’s halfway through cursing it when his eyes catch movement by the counter. Broad shoulders. That familiar slouch. Kerry slows. Grins.

“Noah,” he manages, voice warm and rough around the edges. Doesn’t stop walking—just swings an arm around the other boy’s shoulders like he owns the moment. “You hoardin’ all the good stuff over here, or are you just tryin’ to dodge me?” He leans in, cheek nearly brushing Noah’s collar, a smirk tugging lazy at his lips. “Missed you in the crowd, mate. Could’ve used you on rhythm. Would’ve made me sound halfway decent.” He pulls back just enough to look him over. “You enjoyin’ yourself or just broodin’ in corners?” His eyes crinkle, pale blue eyes blown in the middle from some other substance he can't remember.

Party starter for @bonemachiine