you're a right piece of work

[vvanquishing]

Characters: vvanquishing and 2ollux
Location: casualty communal lobby, and the general surrounding area.
Rating: probably at least pg-13 for potty mouths and brawling.
Time: october 22nd, HIGH NOON. or, well, sometime in the afternoon.
Description: fishboy and tholluckth have some unsettled business, for various reasons of their own. conflicting timelines abound

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[2ollux]

Oh, it was on, man. It was tense. It was intense in the way only great battles could be. He could feel his vascular system working overtime, the adrenalin pumping in his magnificent, skinny, hacker body filling him with a greater confidence than simple dislike ever could; he could win this, he could slap Eridan into blissful nonexist-- PAP.

It was Sollux's glasses that took to the air then, spinning in beautiful arcs on their way to the floor. It seemed a fated thing, the way they skidded to a bumpy stop beside Eridan's own spectacles. One forgotten and unseen moment in the midst of great strife. It was probably deep and poetic in some way, but hell if Sollux took note. (Or even gave much of a damn in general.)

Face smarting, he snarled. This was a true battle, one that tested his mettle, his worth, he couldn't lose this now--

Oh who was he kidding? They had descended to the lowest level fo strife, to the most derisive and laughable levels of aggressing. Sure, Eridan had something of an advantage with his hipster rings and girly jewelry to enhance his blows, and Sollux himself had something of a reflex (idle thanks to that great moronic lump thatwas his lusus), but there was really no getting around it. They were slapping around like little girls and nothing was going to stop it otherwise.

Drastic measures were required, and he would have to be the one to troll up and do it.

So it was with a mighty yell and toothy snarl (it might have looked more like a mirthful grimace, though), Sollux gathered the fibres of his being in hand and leapt into the deadly maelstrom of slaps with arms outstretched. His aim: the fluttering and impressive Foppish Cape his opponent bore. His goal: to trip this shit up with everything he was.

I'M GLAD YOU MADE THE ICON, OTHERWISE I WAS GOING TO

[vvanquishing]

This battle was so on, you'd have to be Troll King Arthur to pull that shit out. A mighty blow connected and did away with the vile gutterblood's glasses the same way he'd been divested of his own; it was practically the epitome of poetic vengeance. He couldn't allow Captor the dignity of a counterattack, however: there was naught left to do but end this, and quickly. One more strike should be more than enough, an open-handed motherfucker of a slap that'd send those ugly bicolour eyeballs spinning in their fucking sock-- SHOOSH.

That was the sound of a hideous mustardblood sailing through the cyaneae insulae that were his limbs and getting a fistful -- armful, even -- of [Eridan's Magnificent Cape]. Its owner recoiled, swearing loudly, hands scrabbling at the neck of Sollux's shirt to try and throw the bastard off.

"You gutterblood-- scrawny-- shit--" he hissed. Scrawny little fuck the mustardblood may be but Eridan still staggered backwards, narrowly treading on both their pairs of eyewear, and unbeknownst to him began to stumble dangerously close to the threshold of the stairway downwards.