Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2013-01-24 02:30 pm
flint_garou) wrote2013-01-24 02:30 pm
Don't do stupid things.
Flint + Riley + Rage =? Stupid things.
24 January, 2013
The moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (85% full).
Security detail means that at the moment, Flint is sitting on the couch with his sketchbook balanced in his lap. Closed, with a page set on top of it, and the teen's focus might not be entirely on the monitors. More of his focus seems to be on the page in front of him, and every so often the pencil drags across the paper with enough force to tear it.
Making her way downstairs in (for a change) something other than her typical dressy fare, Riley looks every bit as though she's intending to go out for a jog. Beaten-up running shoes that look like they're barely hanging together, a pair of black mesh shorts, a tanktop and a hoodie tops off the outfit. She's all set to get her exercise-montage on. As she opens the door to the lobby, she flits her attention to the security booth. Flint's given a simple nod as she keeps walking. For now, her trajectory is to go right outside.
The look that Flint gives Riley isn't hostile. It's just… perplexed, and enough for Flint to cease his focus on the drawing and stare at the Ragabash for a moment. "Hi," he eventually offers, more of a monosyllabic grunt than an actual greeting, and then the cliath is back to drawing. It's nothing particularly interesting, a drawing of what could be any random part of the city umbra.
Not too far behind Riley, and entirely coincidentally, comes Reed. He palms the door open before it clicks closed and follows a few steps behind the ragabash in entering the lobby. Boredom and surliness don't go hand in hand, and it's likely obvious to even the least astute that the moon's weighing incredibly heavy on the cub this day.
Riley sends a second glance in Flint's direction, her brows tugging upward. "Hi." She keeps right on walking toward the door, not giving the art a second glance. She's a ragabash on a mission.
Flint looks past Riley, to Reed, back to Riley. And then the pencil actually tears the paper and Flint crumples the attempt up. And throws it at the ragabash, aiming to peg the fostern in the head.
Reed frowns at Flint, then at the flying paper on its collision course for Riley. His mouth opens then closes, deciding not to say anything while he stops not far past the stairwell door to watch.
It was the best of drawings, it was the worst of drawings. At the very least, though, it was a capable throw. The piece of sketchbook paper bops Riley on the back of the head. She stops in her tracks, glancing over her shoulder with a clearly annoyed look. Bending, she snatches up the balled up piece of paper and unfurls it. Taking a breath, she walks it back over to Flint and sets it into the Galliard's hand, a stiff frown on her face.
Flint looks up at Riley, down at the drawing, and then away. The cliath throws it across the room and into a trash bin this time.
Reed's arms cross over his chest as he watches the silent exchange.
"Flint," Riley grinds, "At some point. At some fucking time, you're gonna to have to act like you're not in the fifth fucking grade. Any particular reason you're provoking me on a fat moon, or is it just for sake of it?"
Flint chews his lower lip, shrugs. It's a thoughtful expression that the cliath has, but he doesn't eventually come up with words. Or at least, many of them. "No." Followed by. "Sorry."
Reed shakes his head and turns away from the scene. His arms drop back down to his sides as he heads for the laundry room, putting the exchange from his mind.
Leaning down and baring her teeth at face level with the Cliath, Riley is quick to snap back, "If you know it's a stupid thing to do, then don't fucking do it, Flint." As though in defiance of her own advice, she reaches out and sweeps Flint's sketchbook and utensils off onto the floor.
Teeth bare in response, and when the Fostern does the stupid thing, well, that's a snapping point. "Right," Flint growls. He's on his feet with surprising and alarming speed, but the boy practically trembles with the amount of control he's exerting. Which isn't enough to keep him from clenching his fists, or baring his teeth at Riley. Just enough to keep himself from frenzying.
Reed turns back out of the laundry room, bottle of water in hand. Brows lift at the sudden tension, and while he might be hardest hit by it, the scene that greets him is laughable. Which is precisely what the cub does, if not loud and overly outward, he makes a choking sound as he swallows down the snicker that tries to come out.
The air has devolved into a veritable miasma of petty rage as Riley looms over the Cliath, posturing; daring the younger, less-experienced Garou to advance on her. She doesn't seem to be near the cusp of frenzy, but her entire body is clenched. "Pick up your shit and sit down."
The laughter, even choked back, seems to infuriate the cliath even further. So instead of doing anything, Flint straightens, looks away, fists clenched as he works to get himself under control.
It might be lucky for Reed that he's not usually inclined to speak. While he starts again, it's aborted almost immediately with a small shake of his head. It doesn't quell the faint smirk any, but even that he tries to hide by looking elsewhere. Like at the door to the stairwell.
If Riley even heard Reed's little snort of laughter, she hasn't let it impact her. She remains stiff and unwavering, staring decidedly downward at the shorter boy. It's just plain easier to be condescending when you can literally look down on someone. "Waiting, Flint."
Anger and pure rage still flares in Flint's glare at Riley as he finally moves to get his things. But it's not the couch that Flint goes to sit down at. "Don't. Do. Stupid. Things," he snaps at Riley, as he hugs the sketchbook and moves for the office. And moves to shut the door behind him.
"He needs to practice what he preaches," Reed observes mildly. The grin and laughter are still in his tone, but his expression only reflects a shadow of it while he looks at the office.
"Tch," Riley replies simply, carrying herself out of the tenement building and slamming the door shut behind her.
There's the click of the lock of the office door. Unlocking, after Riley's departed, and Flint reemerges. "It's mine," he says, quietly and not entirely speaking to Reed. The sketchbook is hugged to his chest now, as the teen goes to the laundry room, presumably to get water. "Stupid plus stupid still equals. Stupid."
"You think," Reed answers, whether or not the question was directed at him. He turns to watch Flint, amusement now replaced with faint derision. "Hella stupid to throw things at people right now. Not that she should've grabbed your stuff. But you started it." Two wrongs don't make it right is human logic, silly wolf. "You can't still be like. Pissed and stuff from yesterday."
"Can too," Flint retorts.
Reed shrugs after a moment. "Forrest was right. Stupid is as stupid does."
Flint turns on his heel to glare at Reed, the getting water all but forgotten, and then just tenses, catches his breath, and turns away again.
Reed doesn't so much as move or blink when Flint turns on him. He stands almost perfectly still, however his hand on the water bottle he'd grabbed for himself tightens slightly.
The reaction seems to placate the irritable galliard, a little. "Can too," he repeats, returning from the laundry room with a glass of water, and then going and proceeding to make himself rather small on the couch, glowering at the room still, but not at anyone in particular. "It's… It isn't. Just yesterday." Words are a struggle. "It's always making fun of me."
"Whatever," Reed answers, shaking his head. "Least she'll watch out for you. Besides, that's what ragabash do. Man up, get over it, and don't pick battles you can't win when the moon's fat."
"Broken fucking words, I can't… ever win, not with. Words," Flint points out, the slight air of defiance now in the cliath's manner, as though anything but picking battles occasionally would mean giving up or giving in, neither of which seem to be acceptable responses.
"Then chill and stop trying to win," Reed points out. There's a definite duh in his tone. "Seriously, dude. You're making me look mellow. That's pretty bad."
Flint glances at Reed, looks up at the ceiling, then down at the couch, before pulling himself into a bit tighter of a knees to chest ball. "And she. She knows I'm stir-crazy and, everything, and. Pokes it all. Anyway."
"Man, you seriously need to get laid." Reed shakes his head and opens his water bottle. "Get over it, over yourself. Just like. Something. Quit being so emo. It's annoying."
"What-the-fuck-ew-gaia-no," Flint interjects at some point, at about the comment that he needs to get laid. Reed gets the same seriously perplexed look that Riley had received earlier, and Flint picks up his sketchbook again. "No," he repeats to Reed. "That. No, people do that when they want…" It's followed by a shake of his head, and Flint gathers his sweatshirt, and water bottle.
"That's why you wear a condom," Reed points out. "How you ever made cliath…" He shakes his head and turns for the stairwell. "And they're worried about me. Maybe the should look at those they already got before they go worrying about what they don't know."
Flint shakes his head, vehemently, and then there's another glare at Reed at the crack about the galliard's rank. But the perplexed look remains. "Ew, no." Pause. "I made cliath on, what I can do," the teen states, tone sharp, words slow. "I fucked up, some. I ran away, once, as a cub. But I. Can fight, make things, do things. Take care of myself, as long as people don't Gaia-damned, don't need, won't." Whatever Flint was trying to say, it gets shaken off and the teen retreats into the office.
"What." It's statement and not question. Though Reed doesn't looked to have followed half of what Flint said, his frown has grown over the sharpness of the cliath's tone. The cap is replaced on his water bottle and then it's thrown, hard, at the closing office door. He isn't really waiting for a reaction, but he turns to go up the stairs and back to the room he and Moxie are borrowing.
24 January, 2013
The moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (85% full).
Security detail means that at the moment, Flint is sitting on the couch with his sketchbook balanced in his lap. Closed, with a page set on top of it, and the teen's focus might not be entirely on the monitors. More of his focus seems to be on the page in front of him, and every so often the pencil drags across the paper with enough force to tear it.
Making her way downstairs in (for a change) something other than her typical dressy fare, Riley looks every bit as though she's intending to go out for a jog. Beaten-up running shoes that look like they're barely hanging together, a pair of black mesh shorts, a tanktop and a hoodie tops off the outfit. She's all set to get her exercise-montage on. As she opens the door to the lobby, she flits her attention to the security booth. Flint's given a simple nod as she keeps walking. For now, her trajectory is to go right outside.
The look that Flint gives Riley isn't hostile. It's just… perplexed, and enough for Flint to cease his focus on the drawing and stare at the Ragabash for a moment. "Hi," he eventually offers, more of a monosyllabic grunt than an actual greeting, and then the cliath is back to drawing. It's nothing particularly interesting, a drawing of what could be any random part of the city umbra.
Not too far behind Riley, and entirely coincidentally, comes Reed. He palms the door open before it clicks closed and follows a few steps behind the ragabash in entering the lobby. Boredom and surliness don't go hand in hand, and it's likely obvious to even the least astute that the moon's weighing incredibly heavy on the cub this day.
Riley sends a second glance in Flint's direction, her brows tugging upward. "Hi." She keeps right on walking toward the door, not giving the art a second glance. She's a ragabash on a mission.
Flint looks past Riley, to Reed, back to Riley. And then the pencil actually tears the paper and Flint crumples the attempt up. And throws it at the ragabash, aiming to peg the fostern in the head.
Reed frowns at Flint, then at the flying paper on its collision course for Riley. His mouth opens then closes, deciding not to say anything while he stops not far past the stairwell door to watch.
It was the best of drawings, it was the worst of drawings. At the very least, though, it was a capable throw. The piece of sketchbook paper bops Riley on the back of the head. She stops in her tracks, glancing over her shoulder with a clearly annoyed look. Bending, she snatches up the balled up piece of paper and unfurls it. Taking a breath, she walks it back over to Flint and sets it into the Galliard's hand, a stiff frown on her face.
Flint looks up at Riley, down at the drawing, and then away. The cliath throws it across the room and into a trash bin this time.
Reed's arms cross over his chest as he watches the silent exchange.
"Flint," Riley grinds, "At some point. At some fucking time, you're gonna to have to act like you're not in the fifth fucking grade. Any particular reason you're provoking me on a fat moon, or is it just for sake of it?"
Flint chews his lower lip, shrugs. It's a thoughtful expression that the cliath has, but he doesn't eventually come up with words. Or at least, many of them. "No." Followed by. "Sorry."
Reed shakes his head and turns away from the scene. His arms drop back down to his sides as he heads for the laundry room, putting the exchange from his mind.
Leaning down and baring her teeth at face level with the Cliath, Riley is quick to snap back, "If you know it's a stupid thing to do, then don't fucking do it, Flint." As though in defiance of her own advice, she reaches out and sweeps Flint's sketchbook and utensils off onto the floor.
Teeth bare in response, and when the Fostern does the stupid thing, well, that's a snapping point. "Right," Flint growls. He's on his feet with surprising and alarming speed, but the boy practically trembles with the amount of control he's exerting. Which isn't enough to keep him from clenching his fists, or baring his teeth at Riley. Just enough to keep himself from frenzying.
Reed turns back out of the laundry room, bottle of water in hand. Brows lift at the sudden tension, and while he might be hardest hit by it, the scene that greets him is laughable. Which is precisely what the cub does, if not loud and overly outward, he makes a choking sound as he swallows down the snicker that tries to come out.
The air has devolved into a veritable miasma of petty rage as Riley looms over the Cliath, posturing; daring the younger, less-experienced Garou to advance on her. She doesn't seem to be near the cusp of frenzy, but her entire body is clenched. "Pick up your shit and sit down."
The laughter, even choked back, seems to infuriate the cliath even further. So instead of doing anything, Flint straightens, looks away, fists clenched as he works to get himself under control.
It might be lucky for Reed that he's not usually inclined to speak. While he starts again, it's aborted almost immediately with a small shake of his head. It doesn't quell the faint smirk any, but even that he tries to hide by looking elsewhere. Like at the door to the stairwell.
If Riley even heard Reed's little snort of laughter, she hasn't let it impact her. She remains stiff and unwavering, staring decidedly downward at the shorter boy. It's just plain easier to be condescending when you can literally look down on someone. "Waiting, Flint."
Anger and pure rage still flares in Flint's glare at Riley as he finally moves to get his things. But it's not the couch that Flint goes to sit down at. "Don't. Do. Stupid. Things," he snaps at Riley, as he hugs the sketchbook and moves for the office. And moves to shut the door behind him.
"He needs to practice what he preaches," Reed observes mildly. The grin and laughter are still in his tone, but his expression only reflects a shadow of it while he looks at the office.
"Tch," Riley replies simply, carrying herself out of the tenement building and slamming the door shut behind her.
There's the click of the lock of the office door. Unlocking, after Riley's departed, and Flint reemerges. "It's mine," he says, quietly and not entirely speaking to Reed. The sketchbook is hugged to his chest now, as the teen goes to the laundry room, presumably to get water. "Stupid plus stupid still equals. Stupid."
"You think," Reed answers, whether or not the question was directed at him. He turns to watch Flint, amusement now replaced with faint derision. "Hella stupid to throw things at people right now. Not that she should've grabbed your stuff. But you started it." Two wrongs don't make it right is human logic, silly wolf. "You can't still be like. Pissed and stuff from yesterday."
"Can too," Flint retorts.
Reed shrugs after a moment. "Forrest was right. Stupid is as stupid does."
Flint turns on his heel to glare at Reed, the getting water all but forgotten, and then just tenses, catches his breath, and turns away again.
Reed doesn't so much as move or blink when Flint turns on him. He stands almost perfectly still, however his hand on the water bottle he'd grabbed for himself tightens slightly.
The reaction seems to placate the irritable galliard, a little. "Can too," he repeats, returning from the laundry room with a glass of water, and then going and proceeding to make himself rather small on the couch, glowering at the room still, but not at anyone in particular. "It's… It isn't. Just yesterday." Words are a struggle. "It's always making fun of me."
"Whatever," Reed answers, shaking his head. "Least she'll watch out for you. Besides, that's what ragabash do. Man up, get over it, and don't pick battles you can't win when the moon's fat."
"Broken fucking words, I can't… ever win, not with. Words," Flint points out, the slight air of defiance now in the cliath's manner, as though anything but picking battles occasionally would mean giving up or giving in, neither of which seem to be acceptable responses.
"Then chill and stop trying to win," Reed points out. There's a definite duh in his tone. "Seriously, dude. You're making me look mellow. That's pretty bad."
Flint glances at Reed, looks up at the ceiling, then down at the couch, before pulling himself into a bit tighter of a knees to chest ball. "And she. She knows I'm stir-crazy and, everything, and. Pokes it all. Anyway."
"Man, you seriously need to get laid." Reed shakes his head and opens his water bottle. "Get over it, over yourself. Just like. Something. Quit being so emo. It's annoying."
"What-the-fuck-ew-gaia-no," Flint interjects at some point, at about the comment that he needs to get laid. Reed gets the same seriously perplexed look that Riley had received earlier, and Flint picks up his sketchbook again. "No," he repeats to Reed. "That. No, people do that when they want…" It's followed by a shake of his head, and Flint gathers his sweatshirt, and water bottle.
"That's why you wear a condom," Reed points out. "How you ever made cliath…" He shakes his head and turns for the stairwell. "And they're worried about me. Maybe the should look at those they already got before they go worrying about what they don't know."
Flint shakes his head, vehemently, and then there's another glare at Reed at the crack about the galliard's rank. But the perplexed look remains. "Ew, no." Pause. "I made cliath on, what I can do," the teen states, tone sharp, words slow. "I fucked up, some. I ran away, once, as a cub. But I. Can fight, make things, do things. Take care of myself, as long as people don't Gaia-damned, don't need, won't." Whatever Flint was trying to say, it gets shaken off and the teen retreats into the office.
"What." It's statement and not question. Though Reed doesn't looked to have followed half of what Flint said, his frown has grown over the sharpness of the cliath's tone. The cap is replaced on his water bottle and then it's thrown, hard, at the closing office door. He isn't really waiting for a reaction, but he turns to go up the stairs and back to the room he and Moxie are borrowing.