pretty places [thread x love]

pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]
Advertiser

2,985 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 14, 2024 11:46:57 GMT -5

over the moon, where all the wild things are

pretty places [thread x love] Jul 10, 2021 23:39:59 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pearl mcclain d4 [ryan] on Jul 10, 2021 23:39:59 GMT -5

Its much later in the day, and Thread openly let Fleur take the first watch. If he was being honest with himself, he hadnt felt the best. But some water and some much needed crafting later, Thread could at least say that he felt a little less on edge. Maybe if he spent just a little more time focusing on the actual fighting that was going on int he training center, he could ahve taken those mutts out even quicker.

To be quite honest, he knew that he would never really feel the most confident int hsi place. He was not a fighter, far from it to be very honest. He shrugged for a moment, trying to put his mind at rest as he sat up and looked at the night sky. It was quiet something that he had been used to at this point.

It wasnt like his home life was eventful after Stitch had died.

He had received some weird items in sponsorship today, well, one weird item. It was a pair of cans with a string attaching them. The string looked long enough to at least toss a couple feet. The note read something strange. But it was from a capitolite. That much Thread could at least tell. He had never seen something like this, but he was quite impressed to find that when he spoke into one can, the sound from the other side came out clear.

He wondered if this would come in handy at all.

It probably wouldnt, but at this point, he was starting to become somewhat delirious. He sat again one of the trees as he looked at the night sky and he wondered what Stitch would have done in this moment. He was always about living in the moment, and right now, this would probably be his last chance to actually do so.

Seeing as he could be dead the next day.

So he took the cans out of the box and took one end and threw it as far as he could. He could feel the string tug a little bit, which probably meant it went as far as it could. He sat back down and positioned his body close enough to at least be covered by a tree that shared a similar frame to him. After all, he didnt want to give away his position completely.

He pulled the can to his mouth, his eyes darting up to see that Fleur was still sleeping. "Hello? Anyone there?" he said into it, knowing well that there was probably no one going to show up at the other end. However, Thread wasnt going to let that sour his attitude about it.

No.

He was going to remain hopeful.

pogue
Graphics

1,890 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Oct 19, 2024 11:07:44 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

pretty places [thread x love] Jul 11, 2021 12:49:04 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Jul 11, 2021 12:49:04 GMT -5

L O V E

Love Bellisario wears his exhaustion on his sleeves and his chest and his face and everything in between, bags under his eyes stained purple and black even in the soft glow of the moonlight. He'd volunteered for the first watch for a reason, blue eyes watching the sun fall from its throne and disappear behind the trees, the moon clawing its way up from a shallow grave and into the night sky.

His gaze drifts down to the last two people he has left, tired forms silhouetted against the grass and their chests softly rising up and down in between his own heartbeats. When he looks at them he sees ghosts in the making, watches their skin shatter and crack until blood seeps out from the veins. He watches them fall one by one, two by two and hears their cannons distant in the back of his mind.

And, much to his dismay, when he blinks once he sees Emerson Le Roux, twice and he sees Chad Chapman.

They haunt him like the brand wounds and tattoos that are lined up across his chest, diamond form a reminder of why he's here in the first place and why he should be the last one walking out, too. Their ghosts are sick, vile, with grins that scream a thirst for blood and foggy white eyes that look into and through him, reflecting only what they want him to be instead of what he actually is.

But, then again, he doesn't know what that last part truly is.

It'd be easy to lose yourself in a place like this if you actually knew who you were when you stepped in, and as white-knuckled fists curl softly around the handle of his axe he digs his teeth into his lower lip until he feels rust and iron seep onto his tongue, scowl and frown dancing together on his face amidst the swirl of emotions. In the blinks and the background Emerson and Chad laugh at him, jesters in the making as they watch his own downfall.

So lost in a destruction of his own making, it takes him a heartbeat and a half to respond to the shuffling of bushes to his left, accented by a metallic thud and he's on his feet with no time to waste, axe held at the ready and narrowed eyes staring through the dark treeline like a snake ready to bite.

He hears the voices before he sees the makers, his footsteps purposely quiet and every snap of a twig underneath his feet sending chills down a spine that's ready to lunge for the kill. His eyes drift down, following the noises against a chorus of screaming cicadas and the distant sprinting of a mutt through the bushes.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

He thinks it a trap for the first moment, the way the voice trails up from a hollow can and into his ears. All tilted head and bit lip he stares down at the disjointed voice that trails through the childhood toy, calling out sweet nothings in the hopes that someone would answer. So, seems like someone else got the same sponsor gift today. He thinks to himself, memories of the little red parachute carrying the same item down and into his grasp, absentmindedly swinging the string can phone amidst his own spiraling earlier in the day. Silently he snatches the metal can from the ground, metal cool against a skin laced with a fire too hot to quell.

"Roger, roger." He finally mutters into the phone, his voice betraying his hopeful threatening demeanor and coming out a hundred heartbeats more tired and defeated than he'd expected. He sighs to himself, hardly audible on the other end of the phone.

"So, who do I have the pleasure of finding myself speaking to tonight?" He asks into the metal, his eyes scanning the treeline and body still ready to respond to a sudden knife or sword breaking through the brush.

pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]
Advertiser

2,985 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 14, 2024 11:46:57 GMT -5

over the moon, where all the wild things are

pretty places [thread x love] Jul 12, 2021 20:26:11 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pearl mcclain d4 [ryan] on Jul 12, 2021 20:26:11 GMT -5

Its quiet. A little too quiet, but it seems to settle in a way that made Thread feel just a little bit easier. His back was pressed against the tree, the humidity starting to slightly waver. He felt like he could breath again. He had waited there, still realizing that he had thrown the can behind him moments ago. Maybe ti was silly to think that someone was going to come out of no where and find it. He had been certain that no one had been around them.

After all, they wouldnt be safe if they werent alone.

But then he felt the string tug a little, and while he wanted to jump, he didnt want to give away his position. The sound of the wind whooshed through the air, and Thread felt like this had to all have been for something? Right? He looked around to see that Fleur was very much asleep, and even though he probably wished that she was awake, he knew that he could handle this.

According to Panem, he could work wonders with a spear.

He then heard a voice come through the can in the most glass like fashion. He was a little perplexed, but it seemed like Risky wasnt lying when she said that these can phones would be perfect.

He wondered what else the capitol had in store.

He could tell that it was another male over the line, and one that seemed gruff in exterior. Part of Thread wanted to assume, but it was always best to at least get a name and maybe share a couple pleasentries before they tried to kill each other. "Thread Gabel. District Eight." Thread said softly, more tired than anything. He didnt want to start a fight, but he knew better.

This was the hunger games after all. Stitch probably would have talked long enough to get the jump on other side of the can, but Thread was a different breed. Soft and kind behind his very stony exterior. It would take eons in order to erode the stone that made up his wall, but one day he would let it down.

He was already doing so with Fleur.

He looked down at the can and then put his mouth to it. "And who do I have on the other end of this er..." Thread stopped for a moment. "... Can?" Thread couldnt help but chuckle a little bit. "I cant believe that just left my mouth." Thread is very much the least bit worried about any of this actually blowing up in his face.

After all, he was already dancing with death.

Whats the harm in a little thrill.

pogue
Graphics

1,890 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Oct 19, 2024 11:07:44 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

pretty places [thread x love] Jul 20, 2021 12:12:12 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Jul 20, 2021 12:12:12 GMT -5

L O V E

He thinks, for a moment, that his response has fallen on deaf ears, hearing nothing but the sound of an ocean of metal hitting his eardrums as he presses his ear to the open end of the can. And, for the next moment in between pounding heartbeats every inch of instincts that have been laced and carved into his skin and muscle and bone fires off with the warning of a trap. His fingers tighten around the handle of his axe, metal glinting in the soft glow of the moonlight as he scans the trees around him.

He bares his fangs, teeth grinding into each other and wounded pride the only stopper to calling out for Julian and Waverly to come help defend him. Because he hates the way his mind wants to need them, wants to defend them, wants to see them alive. It goes against everything he has ever taught and told himself between static and sound leaking from his cassette in the midnight hours, goes against every single thing he wishes he was and knows he isn't.

"Thread Gabel. District Eight."

A voice breaks through the silence and cuts swiftly through the spiral that spins and twirls in the back of his mind and he gulps, sighing softly while trying to steady and stop the way his hand shakes ever so softly no matter how tightly he's wrapping his hand around the metal, threatening to bend and crush it in his own grasp. Love's gaze shifts from the tops of the trees and the way the moonlight outlines them in a soft blue and down to the string that extends out the back of the mock sponsorship gift, watching it tug and pull gently as the boy on the other end speaks to him. Thread Gabel, the name rings familiar bells in the back of his mind, and his brain pulls forth every hastily written down note on his fellow tributes he'd carved into the notebook stored underneath his pillow, carefully crafting and curating a plan he'd thought foolproof with a smirk on his face and venom in his veins. It'd seemed simple, then.

Now, his mind and his heart are split and rest heavy on two different pages of his own story, staining the pages blood red and slowly eating him from the inside out. His mind whispers kill, tells him to whisper sweet nothings into his end of the phone until he can follow that string and bury his axe in the back of Thread's head just to listen to the sounds of blood flowing from his end of the can phone.

His heart tells him that he's not strong enough to handle another ghost within his dreams. Against every killer instinct laced into his bones, he believes it.

"Love Bellisario. Two." He says grimly, voice laced with his own torn exhaustion and hand finally loosening the grip on his weapon. His skin and bone aches in response, body finally fully recognizing how tight he'd been holding it, as if it were the last thing tethering him to a path he knew he'd have to take. Perhaps, it was, but he bites it down and tastes the bitter remnants of iron and venom of his own making on his tongue.

"You and me both-" He starts, listening to the way his voice reverbs from the can as he speaks. "I didn't expect myself to end this day talking to another tribute through a child's toy, to be honest." He finishes with a soft chuckle, genuine and treasonous against how he knows he should be reacting.

"Guess the Games have a way of surprising us all, huh?"