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fandomweekly2016-09-23 10:25 pm
craftings) wrote in fandomweekly2016-09-23 10:25 pm
Entry tags:
[#025] Now Can We Talk? (Original)
Theme Prompt: #025 - Hurts So Good
Title: Now Can We Talk?
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 - Violence/Language
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 993
Summary: It's been four years since Krypta left home, and she has a lot of work to do in rebuilding her team from the ground up.
"Hit me harder."
Lance's figure is a sorry sight on the ground, blood pouring out of his nose like a faucet, dripping to the floor in slow drops; like a clock lost in transit between seconds of time. His shaggy blonde hair is a mess of dirt, sweat, and grime; eyes blazing blue in a fury she hasn't seen in what feels like decades.
The sparring area of the Battalion is empty; a rare sight ever since the apocalypse came. More often than not, the room had some dedicated soul in it at all times, either fighting or just practicing on their own. She's kept it closed mostly for this one talk, because it's been a talk they've needed to have.
Or, well, it would be a talk if Lance wasn't Lance. So far, the sparring room is feeling its fair share of abuse in damage. Divots in the dry floor, dust being disturbed and resettling, boxes crushed or torn asunder in their constant barrage of hits against each other. Lance doesn't know how to talk without hitting first.
"I said, hit me harder. That all you got?"
Krypta drops her arms and wipes a thumb across her busted lip, already feeling her powers begin to stitch it back together. "You know it isn't, and I'm not going to."
"Because you're afraid, Notte." He always calls her by her last name. Lance stares at her for a moment and picks himself up again, wobbling a little, head shaking even as Krypta steps forward to try and stabilize him. "I don't want your help- I've had worse."
"Lance. You keep saying that, and I'll make sure it actually is worse."
"Like you could." It's spat out with acidity, words like blades hurled at her at high speed. His fist comes flying next. "You fucking left for four years! How the fuck did you think that was okay?" Lance hits hard; harder than what most people would expect, harder than what she allows in a fight. Krypta takes it anyway, right to the chest, feet sliding as his momentum propels her back. If she were human he would have shattered her rib-cage in an instant, possibly killed her. But she hasn't been human for a long time now.
When the dust settles again, she stares back at him, hands wrapped around his arm and refusing to let go. Her voice is small in reply, quiet. "I didn't. But I needed to leave."
"You're full of shit."
She shoves him back, one hand beginning to blaze with fire as her own patience begins to wear thin. She shoves it forward through the air, aiming for his head with a nasty fireball to his temple. Lance ducks immediately and goes for her feet, something she doesn't react to quickly enough, side slamming into the floor with a thud. Her head hits just as hard into the ground and she sees stars, eyes blinking and wincing suddenly as everything is bright and painful all at once, ears buzzing with a high pitch that renders her thoughts useless while she lays there.
Lance towers over her for a moment before crouching on his feet, knees propped over her body, a hand roughly on her chest. "If you didn't want to, you wouldn't have. At some point, you lost your fire, Notte. You didn't care anymore. About home, or anyone." His grip tightens in her shirt, pulls half her torso up to have her dazed face look at him while he speaks. "You didn't care."
In an instant, the air around them changes. The tense and heavy stillness around them both shifts into heat and anger and fury. Lance barely has any time to register the hand around his throat before he finds himself being practically bent over backwards and slammed with sudden force into the dust below, lungs choking on the absence of air inside them. He swears he feels the ground shudder slightly underneath him- or maybe it's his head still caught up in being unceremoniously shoved into the dirt. He's not sure.
It's a long and quiet moment, heat still pricking against his skin, before he sees a pair of vivid green eyes stare down at him, Krypta breathing hard and her fingers curling tighter around his neck. "Fucking say that again." The roles are switched, and while he struggles to breathe, there's only one thing that comes from his mouth in reply.
He laughs.
It's not a malicious laugh, and it's not a crazy one either. It's a full laugh- or, rather, it's the attempt at a full laugh, since he still can't quite breathe properly- but it's a good laugh nonetheless. The both of them, stuck in the dirt and scuffling like children, is a reminder of things they used to do years ago, when the war was still happening and she was still trying to make sense of what being a leader meant. It's familiar and also a pain in the ass, because they would bust each other up so badly they'd come in the next day with bruises left over, and still go at it. It was a way to enjoy something amongst everything they'd lost, and everything they fought for.
"Damnit, Notte. Now that is a hit."
Krypta's brow furrows, and she rolls her eyes, sighing. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" She lets go of his neck and pulls away, but not before punching his arm in retaliation.
"Just like we used to fight? Of course. And you did too." Lance breathes in and wheezes, statement strained as his lungs fill with air again. But he's not wrong- she did miss it. Maybe that's a starting point after so long.
A moment passes before she pulls him up off the floor and crosses her arms, looking him over. "So, now can we talk?"
Lance smiles; the first smile he's thrown at her since her arrival back home. "Yeah. Now we can talk."
Title: Now Can We Talk?
Fandom: Original
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 - Violence/Language
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 993
Summary: It's been four years since Krypta left home, and she has a lot of work to do in rebuilding her team from the ground up.
"Hit me harder."
Lance's figure is a sorry sight on the ground, blood pouring out of his nose like a faucet, dripping to the floor in slow drops; like a clock lost in transit between seconds of time. His shaggy blonde hair is a mess of dirt, sweat, and grime; eyes blazing blue in a fury she hasn't seen in what feels like decades.
The sparring area of the Battalion is empty; a rare sight ever since the apocalypse came. More often than not, the room had some dedicated soul in it at all times, either fighting or just practicing on their own. She's kept it closed mostly for this one talk, because it's been a talk they've needed to have.
Or, well, it would be a talk if Lance wasn't Lance. So far, the sparring room is feeling its fair share of abuse in damage. Divots in the dry floor, dust being disturbed and resettling, boxes crushed or torn asunder in their constant barrage of hits against each other. Lance doesn't know how to talk without hitting first.
"I said, hit me harder. That all you got?"
Krypta drops her arms and wipes a thumb across her busted lip, already feeling her powers begin to stitch it back together. "You know it isn't, and I'm not going to."
"Because you're afraid, Notte." He always calls her by her last name. Lance stares at her for a moment and picks himself up again, wobbling a little, head shaking even as Krypta steps forward to try and stabilize him. "I don't want your help- I've had worse."
"Lance. You keep saying that, and I'll make sure it actually is worse."
"Like you could." It's spat out with acidity, words like blades hurled at her at high speed. His fist comes flying next. "You fucking left for four years! How the fuck did you think that was okay?" Lance hits hard; harder than what most people would expect, harder than what she allows in a fight. Krypta takes it anyway, right to the chest, feet sliding as his momentum propels her back. If she were human he would have shattered her rib-cage in an instant, possibly killed her. But she hasn't been human for a long time now.
When the dust settles again, she stares back at him, hands wrapped around his arm and refusing to let go. Her voice is small in reply, quiet. "I didn't. But I needed to leave."
"You're full of shit."
She shoves him back, one hand beginning to blaze with fire as her own patience begins to wear thin. She shoves it forward through the air, aiming for his head with a nasty fireball to his temple. Lance ducks immediately and goes for her feet, something she doesn't react to quickly enough, side slamming into the floor with a thud. Her head hits just as hard into the ground and she sees stars, eyes blinking and wincing suddenly as everything is bright and painful all at once, ears buzzing with a high pitch that renders her thoughts useless while she lays there.
Lance towers over her for a moment before crouching on his feet, knees propped over her body, a hand roughly on her chest. "If you didn't want to, you wouldn't have. At some point, you lost your fire, Notte. You didn't care anymore. About home, or anyone." His grip tightens in her shirt, pulls half her torso up to have her dazed face look at him while he speaks. "You didn't care."
In an instant, the air around them changes. The tense and heavy stillness around them both shifts into heat and anger and fury. Lance barely has any time to register the hand around his throat before he finds himself being practically bent over backwards and slammed with sudden force into the dust below, lungs choking on the absence of air inside them. He swears he feels the ground shudder slightly underneath him- or maybe it's his head still caught up in being unceremoniously shoved into the dirt. He's not sure.
It's a long and quiet moment, heat still pricking against his skin, before he sees a pair of vivid green eyes stare down at him, Krypta breathing hard and her fingers curling tighter around his neck. "Fucking say that again." The roles are switched, and while he struggles to breathe, there's only one thing that comes from his mouth in reply.
He laughs.
It's not a malicious laugh, and it's not a crazy one either. It's a full laugh- or, rather, it's the attempt at a full laugh, since he still can't quite breathe properly- but it's a good laugh nonetheless. The both of them, stuck in the dirt and scuffling like children, is a reminder of things they used to do years ago, when the war was still happening and she was still trying to make sense of what being a leader meant. It's familiar and also a pain in the ass, because they would bust each other up so badly they'd come in the next day with bruises left over, and still go at it. It was a way to enjoy something amongst everything they'd lost, and everything they fought for.
"Damnit, Notte. Now that is a hit."
Krypta's brow furrows, and she rolls her eyes, sighing. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" She lets go of his neck and pulls away, but not before punching his arm in retaliation.
"Just like we used to fight? Of course. And you did too." Lance breathes in and wheezes, statement strained as his lungs fill with air again. But he's not wrong- she did miss it. Maybe that's a starting point after so long.
A moment passes before she pulls him up off the floor and crosses her arms, looking him over. "So, now can we talk?"
Lance smiles; the first smile he's thrown at her since her arrival back home. "Yeah. Now we can talk."
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Anything apocalyptic in landscape works for me! Otherwise you can put like boxing gloves or bandages for the banner. I hope that helps c: