[✐fanfic] yugioh: spar
Another week, another charloft prompt for Thief King Bakura and Dia-ryou. (Ryou-abound? She-abound?) Melodramatic and corny as only MANLY, MANLY ANIME can ever be.
It's Thursday! Give us one hundred words of fiction based around sparring or spar or any other tense of the verb you fancy.
As usual, here's more than 100 words.
Spar
The strip of cloth binding her eyes obscured all but the faintest sense of early-morning light. Bakura closed her eyes anyway, breathing deep. Behind her, she heard Diabound's blindfold rustle as the girl pulled its knot tight.
"Ready," her partner announced, breathy already: Bakura could imagine her tongue, reptilian and curious, soaking up all the air she could. As a human, Bakura'd be at an even bigger disadvantage here, she knew…Diabound didn't even rely on her eyes all that much…
But they had to work this out.
"On yer signal," Bakura announced, cricking her shoulders and standing tall, hands flexing. Where was she? Diabound said she could feel - something' - even in a crowd, she always knew where Bakura was - so where was Diabound? Bakura focused on her ears, on the blackness all around her. Come on, Diabound. Where the hell were ya.
Diabound took a breath, sang out the beats they'd practiced to together: this exact routine, done with blindfolds off, choreographed until their movements were as one. Bakura sprang into action, muscle memory working her through the first turn, rushing towards an unseen opponent, three footsteps striking the ground every beat. She lifted her hand for a block, knowing the other girl always took the first move -
A hand collided with her wrist, and Bakura stumbled back, stifling a curse. She'd lost the rhythm, she'd started too fast. And she hadn't felt that coming, not at all.
Scraping across the ground alerted her to the kick aimed at her head; Bakura dropped, pivoted, elbow shooting out to try and knock her opponent off-balance. She met fabric, skin; Diabound's voice wavered, then rang out stronger. Dammit, her opponent was singing and she still couldn't hit her right!!!
Diabound, Bakura told herself mentally, scrunching up her eyes as the blows rained down: bit by bit, Diabound's self-control weathered away. The longer Bakura hit slightly off-target, blocked slightly too soon or too late, the more Diabound started to put a little bit more of her true strength into each hit. Bakura endured as best as she could, the barrage pounding her target's name into her yet not signaling to her where she, the supposed King, needed to hit next-
DiaboundDiaboundDiaboundDiabound--
She's nervous, Bakura realized as she somehow managed to get her arms around an elbow and bent her hips for a throw. She's worried -
--bout me.
Her captive slipped away, delivered a strike to the solar plexus that sent Bakura stumbling backwards - but a flash lit up the darkness behind her closed eyelids and she charged, abandoning the script though still timing her blows to the now-shaky song. There, that point - that point that didn't feel like someone else, but where she herself was headed - that point that felt right, that felt like herself -
Bakura punched with all her might, and felt crossed arms block her solidly, felt bare feet beneath those arms slip and slide on the sand before grabbing down. She heard the hissed intake of breath: she's let herself go, Bakura noticed without trying, she's got fangs, hasn't she - and she aimed the fullness of that feeling, that awareness, at her target again - but - too late -
She heard the whistling of a punch, ripping by her own face -
The two girls froze, two blindfolds fluttering, grabbed or ripped, to the ground, and blinked, gazes not moving from where they'd been behind the fabric.
Bakura stared into Diabound's eyes. Diabound, flicking her forked tongue in the humming air, stared back.
Bakura's mouth split into a crooked grin. "Yo," she said. "Cut the singing. The beat's not needed, an' it makes this too easy."
"Like the singing," Diabound replied, her fist not moving from its position next to Bakura's ear. Bakura's, in the same position over her opponent's shoulder, hadn't either. "Feels like dancing, that way."
Scoffing, Bakura flexed her stomach and winced. "Some dance," she remarked. "Bruised my whole front."
Withdrawing her hand, Diabound smiled and flicked her tongue out at her partner. Bakura let her own fist drop to the girl's shoulder, clapped it, focused inside. There it was - that awareness of something, something that felt right, but not alien, not like another person she could feel…
Diabound, deep down, felt like Bakura herself.
What the hell are you? Bakura thought, not for the first time, but Diabound was grinnin' at her and it was impossible to not grin back. They'd figure it all out, someday. In the meantime, they'd just run over everything that stood against them. Together. Like it should be.
Like they were, deep down inside.
It's Thursday! Give us one hundred words of fiction based around sparring or spar or any other tense of the verb you fancy.
As usual, here's more than 100 words.
Spar
The strip of cloth binding her eyes obscured all but the faintest sense of early-morning light. Bakura closed her eyes anyway, breathing deep. Behind her, she heard Diabound's blindfold rustle as the girl pulled its knot tight.
"Ready," her partner announced, breathy already: Bakura could imagine her tongue, reptilian and curious, soaking up all the air she could. As a human, Bakura'd be at an even bigger disadvantage here, she knew…Diabound didn't even rely on her eyes all that much…
But they had to work this out.
"On yer signal," Bakura announced, cricking her shoulders and standing tall, hands flexing. Where was she? Diabound said she could feel - something' - even in a crowd, she always knew where Bakura was - so where was Diabound? Bakura focused on her ears, on the blackness all around her. Come on, Diabound. Where the hell were ya.
Diabound took a breath, sang out the beats they'd practiced to together: this exact routine, done with blindfolds off, choreographed until their movements were as one. Bakura sprang into action, muscle memory working her through the first turn, rushing towards an unseen opponent, three footsteps striking the ground every beat. She lifted her hand for a block, knowing the other girl always took the first move -
A hand collided with her wrist, and Bakura stumbled back, stifling a curse. She'd lost the rhythm, she'd started too fast. And she hadn't felt that coming, not at all.
Scraping across the ground alerted her to the kick aimed at her head; Bakura dropped, pivoted, elbow shooting out to try and knock her opponent off-balance. She met fabric, skin; Diabound's voice wavered, then rang out stronger. Dammit, her opponent was singing and she still couldn't hit her right!!!
Diabound, Bakura told herself mentally, scrunching up her eyes as the blows rained down: bit by bit, Diabound's self-control weathered away. The longer Bakura hit slightly off-target, blocked slightly too soon or too late, the more Diabound started to put a little bit more of her true strength into each hit. Bakura endured as best as she could, the barrage pounding her target's name into her yet not signaling to her where she, the supposed King, needed to hit next-
DiaboundDiaboundDiaboundDiabound--
She's nervous, Bakura realized as she somehow managed to get her arms around an elbow and bent her hips for a throw. She's worried -
--bout me.
Her captive slipped away, delivered a strike to the solar plexus that sent Bakura stumbling backwards - but a flash lit up the darkness behind her closed eyelids and she charged, abandoning the script though still timing her blows to the now-shaky song. There, that point - that point that didn't feel like someone else, but where she herself was headed - that point that felt right, that felt like herself -
Bakura punched with all her might, and felt crossed arms block her solidly, felt bare feet beneath those arms slip and slide on the sand before grabbing down. She heard the hissed intake of breath: she's let herself go, Bakura noticed without trying, she's got fangs, hasn't she - and she aimed the fullness of that feeling, that awareness, at her target again - but - too late -
She heard the whistling of a punch, ripping by her own face -
The two girls froze, two blindfolds fluttering, grabbed or ripped, to the ground, and blinked, gazes not moving from where they'd been behind the fabric.
Bakura stared into Diabound's eyes. Diabound, flicking her forked tongue in the humming air, stared back.
Bakura's mouth split into a crooked grin. "Yo," she said. "Cut the singing. The beat's not needed, an' it makes this too easy."
"Like the singing," Diabound replied, her fist not moving from its position next to Bakura's ear. Bakura's, in the same position over her opponent's shoulder, hadn't either. "Feels like dancing, that way."
Scoffing, Bakura flexed her stomach and winced. "Some dance," she remarked. "Bruised my whole front."
Withdrawing her hand, Diabound smiled and flicked her tongue out at her partner. Bakura let her own fist drop to the girl's shoulder, clapped it, focused inside. There it was - that awareness of something, something that felt right, but not alien, not like another person she could feel…
Diabound, deep down, felt like Bakura herself.
What the hell are you? Bakura thought, not for the first time, but Diabound was grinnin' at her and it was impossible to not grin back. They'd figure it all out, someday. In the meantime, they'd just run over everything that stood against them. Together. Like it should be.
Like they were, deep down inside.