[align=center][fancypost bgcolor=;border:0;width:450px;text-align:justify;font-size:10.5px;line-height:1.4]"Fuckin' shit—"
He's slammed back against the wall, the impact jolting his skull and clacking his teeth together, scraping the skin of his tongue; blood wells against his lips and he spits it in the face of his attacker, a simple act of defiance in the fact of his potential demise. He's got his hand around the blade of a knife, and the sharp edges bite into his skin, slicing it open and staining it with a pretty red — red, red, the colour of passion and anger and sex, raw and heady and furious against his flesh. It'd hurt, but his veins are pumped full of adrenaline enough to burst, so he bares his fangs and lunges forwards, head-butting the taller man and sending him staggering back.
There's a moment of pause, and then he steps again, right into the man's space, kneeing him in the gut and disarming him with two fluid movements. Crack, and that's his arm — pop, and that's the other, and the man crumples to the floor, a mess of snot and tears and teeth-gritting pain, and it's funny, really, because this isn't going to plan for these guys, is it? That was the last of them — one's unconscious and a second one is gasping, clutching his shattered leg. "Fuckin' amateurs, Christ, should kill all three of ya." he says, but he doesn't. He just pockets their discarded weapons — knives, the morons — adjusts his jacket and slumps back against the wall, toying with the idea of ringing the police. It's a good one, but he's also guilty of assault (in self-defence, but he doesn't know how stupid this city's laws are, and for all he knows, they could be more ridiculous than his old city's). So he decides he'll just leave them to sob in an alley like the wimps they are.
Running his uninjured hand through his hair, Tybalt studies the cut on the other, wincing. It's not fatal — none of his wounds are, cuts and bruises and a bite mark on his fuckin' neck (what the hell was the guy trying to do anyway? Give him a hickey? Fucking felt like it, that's for sure. Whatever he was doing, it definitely wasn't in the right place to rip out a vital vein) — but still, it hurts like a bitch, and he's going to need to patch it up — or get someone to help him. "Fuuuuck." he says, and he leaves it at that, gnawing on his lower lip and frowning intensely.
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