we offer you escape :: fitz + kyler
Feb 25, 2021 21:32:38 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Feb 25, 2021 21:32:38 GMT -5
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Ripred, he's clutching the pack of cigarettes almost as soon as they reach the ground, tearing away the blanket of red parachute that coats them and stuffing it into his pocket as a makeshift bandage for later. His The tips of his fingers curl around the box, bloodied knuckles running white as he flips the box over and reads the writing that is scrawled across it, etched in faded red writing against the plastic white container.
He rolls his eyes, blood-stained fingernails slicing into the plastic around the container before he flips open the carton and pulls out a cigarette, fingertip of his hand rubbing against the side of the box used to light the damn things. "Fuckin' theatrics of it all..." He mutters to himself, putting the cigarette to his mouth and letting his teeth close softly on it before turning back towards his alliance. Garrison's in the middle of bandaging up Kane, wiping the blood away from fresh wounds and trying to ignore the winces of pain that dance across the boy's face, punctuated by gasps of pain as the needle digs in and out of his flesh. Fitz had been lucky that the soft beeping of the sponsor gift had pulled him away when it had, because dancing on the edge of his tongue were the words that Kane looked a bit too worse for wear, that a needle and thread couldn't fix a broken ass. Poisonous tongue and venomous soul, always trying to get him into trouble when he didn't need it. Lenox is stood absently to the side, eyes glazed over and emotion written heavy on her face. Poor girl. He thinks to himself, reaped into an arena like this and all she has is three dumbass boys to comfort her.
"Yo!" He shouts at them, waving his arms for a brief moment to get their attention before pointing at the cigarette. "Smoke break. Piss break. Shit break? Maybe. I'll try and get a better view of the arena " He cracks a grin before tucking his warhammer awkwardly into the side pocket of his cargo parents and walking away from them, dragging along his sins and a trail of cigarette smoke behind him.
Through the smoke and ash that rises up from the death stick stuck between his teeth he sees the shadow of the cell tower as it looms over him, a brief relief from the cold found in its shadow. He looks up at the daunting piece of machinery, hairs on his arms standing up as the electricity emanates out from its source. Better view, I guess. He mutters to himself before clasping the rungs of the ladder on its side and hoisting up his weight. The climb is brutal in its own way, scrapes and bruises and gash in his leg protesting his every movement.
When he finally pulls himself to the first landing of the tower, only about fifteen feet off the ground, he sighs in relief, eyes gazing out over the arena. He's met only with the shadowy figures of areas he may not make it to and the same clusters of tributes that had taken up refuge just outside the cornucopia. He shrugs, noting the landmarks before reaching down and unzipping the pocket of his pants, winking at a camera that's perched on one of the ledges of the tower as he does so. It's only when he hears the sounds of his own piss hit the ground, yellow stream staining the soil of the grounds below that he hears the metallic whirring of the camera as it turns away from him. Prudes. He thinks to himself, he was just giving them a show after all.
His mind wanders as he stares down off the landing, absently humming a tune from home and drawing the same shape he'd doodled on countless pieces of schoolwork instead of actually answering the questions, starting and stopping the stream of piss as needed:
"When nature calls, right?"
He's pulled from his momentary lapse in thinking as the voice calls out to him, fight or flight coursing through his veins as he quickly works to tuck his- ahem- member back into his pants, grabbing his warhammer from his pocket and pointing it down at the source of the noise, white-knuckled fingers grasped tightly around the hilt as he narrows his gaze, expecting a fight or a flying weapon at any moment.
Instead, he's met with a boy that'd been in between his sheets just days prior, carved cheekbones of a good lay staring up at him from the ground. Kyler Petralia, he lets the name dance across his mind as he raises an eyebrow down at the tribute, warhammer still raised for a brief moment before he slowly lowers it. Kyler Petralia wasn't looking for a fight, if the past experiences he'd had with him were any indication. Poor dog of a guy was probably looking for a bone to play with.
"What do you want, romeo?" He says coldly, tossing the words down at the ground as he stares. "I'm not in the mood for a cheap fuck, at least not yet." He mutters, punctuating it with a small grin.
TEQUILA MOCKINGBIRD'S SELF-LIGHTING CIGARETTES
–––
Just strike it and smoke!
–––
Just strike it and smoke!
He rolls his eyes, blood-stained fingernails slicing into the plastic around the container before he flips open the carton and pulls out a cigarette, fingertip of his hand rubbing against the side of the box used to light the damn things. "Fuckin' theatrics of it all..." He mutters to himself, putting the cigarette to his mouth and letting his teeth close softly on it before turning back towards his alliance. Garrison's in the middle of bandaging up Kane, wiping the blood away from fresh wounds and trying to ignore the winces of pain that dance across the boy's face, punctuated by gasps of pain as the needle digs in and out of his flesh. Fitz had been lucky that the soft beeping of the sponsor gift had pulled him away when it had, because dancing on the edge of his tongue were the words that Kane looked a bit too worse for wear, that a needle and thread couldn't fix a broken ass. Poisonous tongue and venomous soul, always trying to get him into trouble when he didn't need it. Lenox is stood absently to the side, eyes glazed over and emotion written heavy on her face. Poor girl. He thinks to himself, reaped into an arena like this and all she has is three dumbass boys to comfort her.
"Yo!" He shouts at them, waving his arms for a brief moment to get their attention before pointing at the cigarette. "Smoke break. Piss break. Shit break? Maybe. I'll try and get a better view of the arena " He cracks a grin before tucking his warhammer awkwardly into the side pocket of his cargo parents and walking away from them, dragging along his sins and a trail of cigarette smoke behind him.
Through the smoke and ash that rises up from the death stick stuck between his teeth he sees the shadow of the cell tower as it looms over him, a brief relief from the cold found in its shadow. He looks up at the daunting piece of machinery, hairs on his arms standing up as the electricity emanates out from its source. Better view, I guess. He mutters to himself before clasping the rungs of the ladder on its side and hoisting up his weight. The climb is brutal in its own way, scrapes and bruises and gash in his leg protesting his every movement.
When he finally pulls himself to the first landing of the tower, only about fifteen feet off the ground, he sighs in relief, eyes gazing out over the arena. He's met only with the shadowy figures of areas he may not make it to and the same clusters of tributes that had taken up refuge just outside the cornucopia. He shrugs, noting the landmarks before reaching down and unzipping the pocket of his pants, winking at a camera that's perched on one of the ledges of the tower as he does so. It's only when he hears the sounds of his own piss hit the ground, yellow stream staining the soil of the grounds below that he hears the metallic whirring of the camera as it turns away from him. Prudes. He thinks to himself, he was just giving them a show after all.
His mind wanders as he stares down off the landing, absently humming a tune from home and drawing the same shape he'd doodled on countless pieces of schoolwork instead of actually answering the questions, starting and stopping the stream of piss as needed:
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"When nature calls, right?"
He's pulled from his momentary lapse in thinking as the voice calls out to him, fight or flight coursing through his veins as he quickly works to tuck his- ahem- member back into his pants, grabbing his warhammer from his pocket and pointing it down at the source of the noise, white-knuckled fingers grasped tightly around the hilt as he narrows his gaze, expecting a fight or a flying weapon at any moment.
Instead, he's met with a boy that'd been in between his sheets just days prior, carved cheekbones of a good lay staring up at him from the ground. Kyler Petralia, he lets the name dance across his mind as he raises an eyebrow down at the tribute, warhammer still raised for a brief moment before he slowly lowers it. Kyler Petralia wasn't looking for a fight, if the past experiences he'd had with him were any indication. Poor dog of a guy was probably looking for a bone to play with.
"What do you want, romeo?" He says coldly, tossing the words down at the ground as he stares. "I'm not in the mood for a cheap fuck, at least not yet." He mutters, punctuating it with a small grin.
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