fire whiskey ₊⊹ gunner &. lionel
Feb 1, 2024 15:41:55 GMT -5
Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Feb 1, 2024 15:41:55 GMT -5
He tossed one weird-looking fish snack into the air and managed to catch it in his mouth. The rest that he hadn’t caught laid at his feet: crushed like scoops of ice cream, strewn across the floor.
Hors d'oeuvre, the waiter informed pointedly. Another name for it would be fancy crap or rich people bullshit.
It was incredible that the amount of food they served in a day here was enough to feed a hundred families back home for a month. It was also, he mused with a flash of raw and unrefined fury, incredibly enraging. Gunner threw the fishy snack at the wall for good measure. He’d toss the entire tray if he had it.
The dining hall at midnight looked eerily sterile, colder and outlandish, a slice of otherworldly architecture. And as the lone person in it, he felt equally like so.
But soon another entered to break the spell. A boy, lanky and half-formed by adulthood, a scowl affixed to his face. Gunner’s own brows rose an inch from where he sat on the table, cross-legged, dressed in all black.
For a moment, he said nothing, only stared.
Then, after a swift tilt of his neck right and left, cracking the stiff tendons, Gunner remarked, “you look awfully in need of a drink.” A shark’s smile carved itself onto his lips. “How old are you? Sixteen? Let’s go with sixteen. It makes me feel less guilty.” He hopped off the table, rose to his full height: a slender six feet and four inches that he carried as one would a blade, an unerring grace to each and every movement.
“I am so fucking parched.”
Hors d'oeuvre, the waiter informed pointedly. Another name for it would be fancy crap or rich people bullshit.
It was incredible that the amount of food they served in a day here was enough to feed a hundred families back home for a month. It was also, he mused with a flash of raw and unrefined fury, incredibly enraging. Gunner threw the fishy snack at the wall for good measure. He’d toss the entire tray if he had it.
The dining hall at midnight looked eerily sterile, colder and outlandish, a slice of otherworldly architecture. And as the lone person in it, he felt equally like so.
But soon another entered to break the spell. A boy, lanky and half-formed by adulthood, a scowl affixed to his face. Gunner’s own brows rose an inch from where he sat on the table, cross-legged, dressed in all black.
For a moment, he said nothing, only stared.
Then, after a swift tilt of his neck right and left, cracking the stiff tendons, Gunner remarked, “you look awfully in need of a drink.” A shark’s smile carved itself onto his lips. “How old are you? Sixteen? Let’s go with sixteen. It makes me feel less guilty.” He hopped off the table, rose to his full height: a slender six feet and four inches that he carried as one would a blade, an unerring grace to each and every movement.
“I am so fucking parched.”
