( SENSE8 SENTENCE STARTERS | accepting )

     the moment he sees the bruise on titus’ face, leon can hear his breath hitch, his eyes going wide, smile slipping down to an obvious frown. he doesn’t know what to say, but it’s clear to realize it’s worry that spreads across his chest, that something did happen, and by the looks of it, it wasn’t something nice. he knows titus is more than capable of handling himself, if his confidence is anything to go by — but it doesn’t change the fact that he was hurt, the left side of his face an ugly shade of purple, his eye almost shut, the bit he can see is already red. his own pain receptors are hardly used in such regard, but leon doesn’t need to be a human to realize how painful that must be, even if titus is acting like it’s something that happens every other day.

     the concern must show on his face to prompt that brushing off from the man, though it does little to ease leon’s worry, his hands are wrung together as he tries to go through the inital shock— to do something, anything. it’s times like this he’s glad titus hasn’t figured out yet that he’s a proto, under black hoodies and a safe distance from the other, it’s not something that came up, be as it may that leon has kept that piece of vital information from the human. it’s good for situations such as this, where he knows acting this emotional at the sight of an injury is unlike a proper proto, that it’s not what should happen when one of them faces such a sight. they should find a first aid kit, and help the person immediately, and it’s not that leon doesn’t want to do just that — it just… takes some time for his mechanical heart to calm down. and when it does, a sudden flow of words leave his lips, the proto basically scrambling around to find the proper tools to help the other. “how did it happen ? who did that — doesn’t it hurt ?” it’s let out all at once before he disappears to the kitchen to fend the kit and a pack of frozen beans.

SEND ME ‘☾’ FOR AN AESTHETIC OF OUR MUSES, OR SEND ME A ‘⚡’ FOR A MOODBOARD OF OUR MUSES. -- accepting

                          titus & gael – moodboard 1

  ---------------------------------- i’m not very good at drinking   ------ then you’ll just have to practice more, won’t you?

Gael paused, a slight frown on his features, more out of thought than disapproval. “I don’t have any here, but there’s always the Oil Rig.” He shrugged, head turning slightly, eyes meeting the older male’s for a moment. He raised his shoulders, tip of his tongue something of a question. “Why, do you wanna go?” He asked, not quite sure if that was the intent of the original phrase, more curious than strictly nervous for once, his impression of Titus being something positive. 

Maybe it was a tad childish to be rather excited at the prospect of going out for once, a slight hesitance not so much in the activity itself but instead in making his desire to go clear. He didn’t want to give off the wrong impression, always unsure of how he came off to others. He knew he wasn’t perhaps the most interesting person, definitely not the most sociable or wild choice for a outing, instead putting himself in an odd niche of introverted and even a little awkward. His mouth tipped in a small smile, unsure of itself but always friendly, a hand coming up to rub at his neck, the silent moment of thought on his end clear, as if making a much larger decision than simply how to word a sentence.

“I would... be okay with going, if you want to. I have to warn you, though, I don’t drink a lot because... well, I’m bad it.” He finally said honestly with something of a laugh. 

@titus99

certain areas of fyrestone require one such as ares to present himself a certain way, lurk as a shadow or beam as a lighthouse, the chameleon circuits of his system desperate for survival more than poise, and it’s something he wholeheartedly often despises about his construction, or his re-construction primarily. initially built as something softer, something colder, he’s been redesigned as a blockage of mismatched battle components, rewritten as a weapon of mass destruction, re-calibrated for slaughter and mayhem-- but something inside his system still ticks with a ghost of habit, some whisper through his machinery that begs him to be more careful, to step lightly, to wait, to wait, to wait.

he does his best to ignore it most of the time, especially on evenings such as these, when the moons scream high into the night, wide, unblinking eyes boring down onto the valley below, the wind dry as desert sand even as it breezes past. the city rolls and rolls and rolls, the rickety unsteadiness of it all waning on ares’ joints, further convincing him to leave the city once again, go back out into the valley where the world sits still and dead.

tonight though, ahh tonight, he makes a point to burn away all these thoughts, shed them like snakes shed skin, like candles burn at wax, he brushes it all off and strides into the oil rig as though he owns the place, long legs and dark hair, mirroring every sort of midnight atrocity, the smirk across his lips reminiscent of half-remembered nightmares, half-pretended daydreams. he knows he’s pretty, he knows he’s aesthetically made, an archetype of an ancient idealized god, but his thoughts brood crimson, the scent of blood marring his sleeves; he’s just survived a fight and brimming with a disgusting amount confidence.