(no subject)
Characters: Varon aussie_biker and Strings icantalkreally.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing, violence and owowowowow factor?
Summary: Two rivals ever-so-conveniently happen to drop into the same general vicinity, and this little scuffle ensues. (I suck at summaries, so shoot me. XD;)
Doodling. He was outside, doodling, by himself because then the pictures didn't have to mean anything to anyone but him. He liked to doodle sometimes, when he was thinking about a lot of things or when he was thinking about nothing at all. It was relaxing, and comforting, like an old best friend that never demanded his attention but was always quite pleased to receive it.
He found himself drawing, even with only a blue ball-point pen, hair that was meant to have three colours, and an intense pair of eyes that he found he knew the specifics of quite well, and a nose that was placed precisely where it belonged... It wasn't often he drew faces in such detail, since conversations were supposed to happen fairly quickly and stick-figures often communicated an idea well-enough, but that didn't mean he was incapable of it.
Now, smaller, in another corner of the page, a torso started to appear, and following that a head-and-shoulders view was roughed out... Strings was entirely content to sit alone in the spring-almost-summer weather, drawing various views of Yami as the minutes slowly ticked by.
…well. The previous evening had not gone to plan, but he wasn’t going to complain too much. Was, however, going to go hunt down ice-cream to mull over. He’d still got to kiss him and had stayed over again, so that compensated somewhat. The hand holding, too, but that was too cute for Varon to want to count.
But, he’d work on it. Yami couldn’t stay with Strings, because Varon was the preference and Varon didn’t care if Strings loved Yami, because Varon loved Yami and Strings should just fuck off and die already. Well. Maybe not die, but just fuck off, at the very least. Yami wasn’t going to tell him to, and Varon could hardly do it, but he should take a hint.
Or maybe Varon wasn’t stressing this strongly enough, that Strings should leave it alone. If it hadn’t been for Strings, this would be a two-player game and everything would be fine. But no. Strings happened because Varon hadn’t sorted his head out fast enough and he had to unhappen. Varon just needed to figure out how.
Oh, how Fate loved him. Strings. Dear little Stringsy-kins, sitting on his own, writing something in a notebook. That was convenience for you. He was crossing the distance without thinking, because it was, of course, primal, territorial instinct. Get rid of all competition, and the strongest got the mate.
He stopped in front of Strings, snorting and snatching the notebook. “What are you doing? Writing love letters?” Ha, not even writing at all. Drawing pretty pictures. Pretty pictures of Yami. He hated that the drawings were so bloody good. “How cute.”
For a moment, Strings was so absolutely shocked that he couldn't move. Didn't move, just let things process. Someone had just come over, very quickly and without any kind of warning, and taken his sketchbook. His. Sketchbook. His. That book, the one that never ever left him because he needed it and it was his and no one else was allowed to touch it ever and the farthest he remembered it being from his was no more than a scant two inches. Two.
And now it was in someone else's hands. Varon's hands. Varon. That was not allowed. Not at all. No. Not him. Not him. How was it any of his business? It wasn't, not in the slightest and Strings wanted his book back. Right Now. No Varon touching it and no Varon looking at it and no Varon saying what he thought about it because he could talk and do it that way and no Varon anywhere because he hated Varon and Varon anywhere near him was a Very Bad Idea.
He stood, almost growling like that picture of the wolf he so loved to use when annoyed. Only at the moment he wasn't only annoyed, he was angry. Varon Varon Varon. Hated Varon. Stupid Varon who said he'd kill him and rip out his piercings and talked to Yami and-- Hate. Seething. Hate made him raise a balled fist and strike out, hard, straight at Varon's face. That spoke louder than any words he would have said, had he been able.
Give it back and shut up.
Ow. Fuck. The book fell from his hand, didn’t care, didn’t even notice, had been about to throw it back at that idiot anyway. But ow, face, ow, fist, ow, ow. Stumbled back, did not fall, regained balance and his hand was over the side of his face currently throbbing and blinding and ow, fuck. That had not been expected.
Snarled. Bastard. Bastard who was keeping Yami from him, bastard who wasn’t supposed to haveYami. What would he do if he knew the truth? That Yami had let Varon kiss him - not just your standard peck, either - or that they had sat holding hands for God knows how long? That Varon had, to date, slept with Yami in Yami’s bed twice? What if he could read those surveys, know that, if he wasn’t there, Varon would have Yami?
Could have pointed any of them out - wanted to - but beating Strings senseless was going to piss Yami off enough without Strings being able to report back whatever Varon said to him. Should have reconsidered whatever move he was going to make, though, before his fist was flying out to collide with Strings’ face. Should have thought to get him on the ground, pin him there, and rip out every single one of those fucking piercings. But, alas, fist to face it was. For now.
He lunged for his book the second it was free from Varon's hand, managing to catch it before it hit the ground. He held it tightly, possessively, close to his person and glared at Varon because he still hated Varon and didn't want him here and didn't want to see him and--
He got his wish. He felt the metal piercings above his eye twist and press cold into his skin and then the fist hit and that hurt supremely and he fell almost immediately onto his back, the breath knocked out of him in a sharp little huff. Black spots danced across his vision and he his eyes because he'd hit his head and that hurt too and everything was starting to spin around and around. He kicked, blind, to where Varon was supposed to be, hoping to strike something and cause a good lot of pain. Then, making a valiant attempt at breathing properly, one arm still clutching his book, he rolled over one way and got onto his knees. Opened his eyes then, because he needed to see where Varon was and needed to know how much time he had to stand up and get ready and it was probably in his best interest to leave because Varon was taller than he was and bigger than he was and punched harder than he did (and he really did know that) but he didn't care right now and so he was going to stay.
The pen was gone now from his right hand, lost somewhere underfoot, and he tried again for a punch, this one aimed somewhere in the center of Varon's chest.
Strings kicked out, catching the side of Varon’s ankle. Thank you, Doc Martens. Stepped out of kicking range, watched as Strings rolled himself over and got up. His leg twitched, wanted to kick him back down, snarl at him, tell him to stay there, on the ground and away from Yami.
Could break his legs, stomp on them with his boots and shatter the bone, make it so Strings couldn’t walk to Yami. Rip out those piercings, like he promised. See how much it really would hurt, see how much they bled, see just what happened when you ripped out someone’s piercings.
All interesting ideas and many more he could think of but, look! A fist sailing towards his chest. Fabulous. Could’ve just stepped back, of course, but he’d seen a neat trick once. Raised his own fists, and brought them to either side of Strings’ wrist before the punch made contact. Heard the crack, should have been sickened by it, not gleeful, but he at least knew to step back now. He’d broken a bone - that would make for an unhappy Yami. Great. Pushed his bangs back from his face - they promptly fell back down - and watched to see what Strings would do now.
The injury took several seconds to register. Crack. That was a Bad Sound. It meant something had gone very wrong. Crack. That sound meant something was broken. Not in the right place. Crack. That sound meant that if he touched his wrist with his other hand--
A low, rough keening started from his mouth as he felt hot in his eyes. Owowowowowowowowowow-- His arm dropped to his side, something clicking when it reached the point where it was hanging limp. Owowowowowowowow. Couldn't scream, couldn't voice anything, couldn't talk, wouldn't be able to talk because his left had wasn't as good and this hurt and damn Varon hated Varon wasn't going to cry here where Varon could see even if it hurt because then Varon could laugh and that would hurt more on top of everything else and--
His knees trembled and gave out under him. Hurthurthurthurthurthurthurthurt. He couldn't stand anymore, the loss was overwhelming, he was thinking of too many things, he wasn't going to be able to say anything, how dare Varon take that away from him, he wanted to hurt him more, hurt him still but Varon had beaten him, couldn't have caused any bigger hurt or loss without taking Yami away.
Oh but that was okay. Yami was still his. Right now. That was the last thought he had before everything winked out; the black from when he hit his head demanded there be no more.
Oh, shit. Bloody Strings. Why couldn’t he just swear instead of making a noise like that? Yami was going to kill him. Painfully. His arm was dangling at his side and clicking. Wanted to take great glee and pleasure in that Strings was hurting right now, which equalled out to how Varon had almost cried. Strings could take suffering out of this for a change.
Strings fell to his knees, and. Twinge of guilt. Strings was even smaller than Yami and went down so bloody easily. One up on him, then. A win. He’d have another, against Shaadah. Because he could, he was capable of it. Marik wouldn’t been on his knees, had Varon been sober. Fight and fight, because that was better than having to think on not having Yami.
Oh, shit. Strings, flat out. Blanked out. Knocked out. Yami was going to annihilate him. Dropped to his knees and gave Strings a shove, “Wake up.” Pointless. At least it wasn’t concrete. Slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled the number. Yami was going to kill him.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing, violence and owowowowow factor?
Summary: Two rivals ever-so-conveniently happen to drop into the same general vicinity, and this little scuffle ensues. (I suck at summaries, so shoot me. XD;)
Doodling. He was outside, doodling, by himself because then the pictures didn't have to mean anything to anyone but him. He liked to doodle sometimes, when he was thinking about a lot of things or when he was thinking about nothing at all. It was relaxing, and comforting, like an old best friend that never demanded his attention but was always quite pleased to receive it.
He found himself drawing, even with only a blue ball-point pen, hair that was meant to have three colours, and an intense pair of eyes that he found he knew the specifics of quite well, and a nose that was placed precisely where it belonged... It wasn't often he drew faces in such detail, since conversations were supposed to happen fairly quickly and stick-figures often communicated an idea well-enough, but that didn't mean he was incapable of it.
Now, smaller, in another corner of the page, a torso started to appear, and following that a head-and-shoulders view was roughed out... Strings was entirely content to sit alone in the spring-almost-summer weather, drawing various views of Yami as the minutes slowly ticked by.
…well. The previous evening had not gone to plan, but he wasn’t going to complain too much. Was, however, going to go hunt down ice-cream to mull over. He’d still got to kiss him and had stayed over again, so that compensated somewhat. The hand holding, too, but that was too cute for Varon to want to count.
But, he’d work on it. Yami couldn’t stay with Strings, because Varon was the preference and Varon didn’t care if Strings loved Yami, because Varon loved Yami and Strings should just fuck off and die already. Well. Maybe not die, but just fuck off, at the very least. Yami wasn’t going to tell him to, and Varon could hardly do it, but he should take a hint.
Or maybe Varon wasn’t stressing this strongly enough, that Strings should leave it alone. If it hadn’t been for Strings, this would be a two-player game and everything would be fine. But no. Strings happened because Varon hadn’t sorted his head out fast enough and he had to unhappen. Varon just needed to figure out how.
Oh, how Fate loved him. Strings. Dear little Stringsy-kins, sitting on his own, writing something in a notebook. That was convenience for you. He was crossing the distance without thinking, because it was, of course, primal, territorial instinct. Get rid of all competition, and the strongest got the mate.
He stopped in front of Strings, snorting and snatching the notebook. “What are you doing? Writing love letters?” Ha, not even writing at all. Drawing pretty pictures. Pretty pictures of Yami. He hated that the drawings were so bloody good. “How cute.”
For a moment, Strings was so absolutely shocked that he couldn't move. Didn't move, just let things process. Someone had just come over, very quickly and without any kind of warning, and taken his sketchbook. His. Sketchbook. His. That book, the one that never ever left him because he needed it and it was his and no one else was allowed to touch it ever and the farthest he remembered it being from his was no more than a scant two inches. Two.
And now it was in someone else's hands. Varon's hands. Varon. That was not allowed. Not at all. No. Not him. Not him. How was it any of his business? It wasn't, not in the slightest and Strings wanted his book back. Right Now. No Varon touching it and no Varon looking at it and no Varon saying what he thought about it because he could talk and do it that way and no Varon anywhere because he hated Varon and Varon anywhere near him was a Very Bad Idea.
He stood, almost growling like that picture of the wolf he so loved to use when annoyed. Only at the moment he wasn't only annoyed, he was angry. Varon Varon Varon. Hated Varon. Stupid Varon who said he'd kill him and rip out his piercings and talked to Yami and-- Hate. Seething. Hate made him raise a balled fist and strike out, hard, straight at Varon's face. That spoke louder than any words he would have said, had he been able.
Give it back and shut up.
Ow. Fuck. The book fell from his hand, didn’t care, didn’t even notice, had been about to throw it back at that idiot anyway. But ow, face, ow, fist, ow, ow. Stumbled back, did not fall, regained balance and his hand was over the side of his face currently throbbing and blinding and ow, fuck. That had not been expected.
Snarled. Bastard. Bastard who was keeping Yami from him, bastard who wasn’t supposed to haveYami. What would he do if he knew the truth? That Yami had let Varon kiss him - not just your standard peck, either - or that they had sat holding hands for God knows how long? That Varon had, to date, slept with Yami in Yami’s bed twice? What if he could read those surveys, know that, if he wasn’t there, Varon would have Yami?
Could have pointed any of them out - wanted to - but beating Strings senseless was going to piss Yami off enough without Strings being able to report back whatever Varon said to him. Should have reconsidered whatever move he was going to make, though, before his fist was flying out to collide with Strings’ face. Should have thought to get him on the ground, pin him there, and rip out every single one of those fucking piercings. But, alas, fist to face it was. For now.
He lunged for his book the second it was free from Varon's hand, managing to catch it before it hit the ground. He held it tightly, possessively, close to his person and glared at Varon because he still hated Varon and didn't want him here and didn't want to see him and--
He got his wish. He felt the metal piercings above his eye twist and press cold into his skin and then the fist hit and that hurt supremely and he fell almost immediately onto his back, the breath knocked out of him in a sharp little huff. Black spots danced across his vision and he his eyes because he'd hit his head and that hurt too and everything was starting to spin around and around. He kicked, blind, to where Varon was supposed to be, hoping to strike something and cause a good lot of pain. Then, making a valiant attempt at breathing properly, one arm still clutching his book, he rolled over one way and got onto his knees. Opened his eyes then, because he needed to see where Varon was and needed to know how much time he had to stand up and get ready and it was probably in his best interest to leave because Varon was taller than he was and bigger than he was and punched harder than he did (and he really did know that) but he didn't care right now and so he was going to stay.
The pen was gone now from his right hand, lost somewhere underfoot, and he tried again for a punch, this one aimed somewhere in the center of Varon's chest.
Strings kicked out, catching the side of Varon’s ankle. Thank you, Doc Martens. Stepped out of kicking range, watched as Strings rolled himself over and got up. His leg twitched, wanted to kick him back down, snarl at him, tell him to stay there, on the ground and away from Yami.
Could break his legs, stomp on them with his boots and shatter the bone, make it so Strings couldn’t walk to Yami. Rip out those piercings, like he promised. See how much it really would hurt, see how much they bled, see just what happened when you ripped out someone’s piercings.
All interesting ideas and many more he could think of but, look! A fist sailing towards his chest. Fabulous. Could’ve just stepped back, of course, but he’d seen a neat trick once. Raised his own fists, and brought them to either side of Strings’ wrist before the punch made contact. Heard the crack, should have been sickened by it, not gleeful, but he at least knew to step back now. He’d broken a bone - that would make for an unhappy Yami. Great. Pushed his bangs back from his face - they promptly fell back down - and watched to see what Strings would do now.
The injury took several seconds to register. Crack. That was a Bad Sound. It meant something had gone very wrong. Crack. That sound meant something was broken. Not in the right place. Crack. That sound meant that if he touched his wrist with his other hand--
A low, rough keening started from his mouth as he felt hot in his eyes. Owowowowowowowowowow-- His arm dropped to his side, something clicking when it reached the point where it was hanging limp. Owowowowowowowow. Couldn't scream, couldn't voice anything, couldn't talk, wouldn't be able to talk because his left had wasn't as good and this hurt and damn Varon hated Varon wasn't going to cry here where Varon could see even if it hurt because then Varon could laugh and that would hurt more on top of everything else and--
His knees trembled and gave out under him. Hurthurthurthurthurthurthurthurt. He couldn't stand anymore, the loss was overwhelming, he was thinking of too many things, he wasn't going to be able to say anything, how dare Varon take that away from him, he wanted to hurt him more, hurt him still but Varon had beaten him, couldn't have caused any bigger hurt or loss without taking Yami away.
Oh but that was okay. Yami was still his. Right now. That was the last thought he had before everything winked out; the black from when he hit his head demanded there be no more.
Oh, shit. Bloody Strings. Why couldn’t he just swear instead of making a noise like that? Yami was going to kill him. Painfully. His arm was dangling at his side and clicking. Wanted to take great glee and pleasure in that Strings was hurting right now, which equalled out to how Varon had almost cried. Strings could take suffering out of this for a change.
Strings fell to his knees, and. Twinge of guilt. Strings was even smaller than Yami and went down so bloody easily. One up on him, then. A win. He’d have another, against Shaadah. Because he could, he was capable of it. Marik wouldn’t been on his knees, had Varon been sober. Fight and fight, because that was better than having to think on not having Yami.
Oh, shit. Strings, flat out. Blanked out. Knocked out. Yami was going to annihilate him. Dropped to his knees and gave Strings a shove, “Wake up.” Pointless. At least it wasn’t concrete. Slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled the number. Yami was going to kill him.