Description: During a routine jog, Marisol is interrupted by the oar-wielding Briton Preston. The usual exchange ultimately leads to a particular request from the Brit, to engage in a bit of off-hours training. Winner ... gets to say they win! Guess what the loser gets to do? (PROTIP: The title of the log might be helpful!)
After school, Pacific High's athletics field is home to a variety of sports teams practicing. Today, the football field is occupied by the football team, players lined up and gathered with the coaches, going over strategy and plays to cover for today's practice. They dominate today, and very few people outside of the team are present.
In the bleachers, however, a few throngs of students linger; some watch the practice below, pining over the players, while other groups of students talk to themselves and smoke. Some even listen to music from a portable stereo, generic emo music wailing from the device as they sulk in black and try to look cool.
The, of course, there are exceptions, such as Marisol. Clad in gray running shorts with pink piping and a pink athletic top, the girl is content in just running around the football field on the track. Long coppery red hair pulled up, she makes the rounds, occasionally shooting a few jabs out as she rounds the field. To drown out the annoyance of the outside world as she jogs, her trusty iPod lingers in her ears, making the routine a bit more tolerable.
Her jog slows, however, her torso bowing forward as her hands rest on her knees. Clearly winded, she takes a moment to catch her breath, pointedly ignoring a remark from a passing football player on the way to the locker room by turning up the volume on the tiny iPod pinned to her shorts.
"Assholes."
Funnily enough, there's always hijinks going on with those football boys. Even as they leave the field, a few making choice comments which are certainly annoying to the half-Spaniard's ears, they're still snapping towels at each other and being overly affectionate for their age and their gender.
The one who made that comment in particular continues on, laughing at his own genius remarks, the flippant offer for a ride on the 'Chadster' ignored by the ever-vigilant and ever-angry Marisol.
The football star takes three steps before he's suddenly smashed into the ground, tackled by a wall of meat.
Straightening, Preston smirks down at the player; "Not really the kind of fuckin' football I'm used to there, mate," he assures the bloke who's having trouble moving his legs for the moment. Leaning his ever-present across his shoulders, the Brit strolls on.
Wearing no shirt, he likely attracts a few eyes of his own there on the stands, but where he's heading for seems entirely uncertain. For the moment though, it seems he's walking right up to the half-pint half-Spaniard, a grin on his face. Did he just defend her honor? He may well be called on that, but he's got an answer ready; doesn't he always?
"Hey, Mari," he calls, intent on gaining the attention of the jogger.
Unfortunately for Preston, it would appear that his noble demeanor goes unnoticed. For, you see, the girl's back is turned to him as he 'bumps' into the Chadster, sending the cocky football player down to the ground. He stares up, gawking at the much taller (and larger by far) student before he scowls. He's the Chadster - how dare he!
But Preston isn't looking to pick a fight; instead, he continues on, leaving the downed player to lay there. 'Chadster' carefully looks around before he confidently picks himself up again and rolls his head on his shoulders and inhales sharply through his nostrils. Clearly Preston is too afraid to fight him, and that's fine with him.
Meanwhile, Marisol tries to catch her breath, but pauses to kneel over and idly tug at the laces of her running shoes. With her music so loud, the Briton all but sneaks up on her, his call unheard. Instead, she adjusts her shoelaces, fixing them securely into place before she stands upright. When she turns...
...she nearly shares the same fate as 'Chadster.'
"Holy fuck--!" the girl cries, wide-eyed as she stares up at the oar-wielding Brit. "Jesus - Preston, you scared the SHIT out of me!" She glances aside thereafter, a finger adjusting the volume of her iPod before she simply plucks the earbuds out and dangles them from a shoulder.
"Christ...you're part-ninja I swear."
Pause.
"What...are you doing out here?'
Leaving the Chadster behind to an ignoble, self-deluding fate, the Brit ambles up towards Marisol as she kneels down and plays with her shoelaces. It's safe to say he admires the view.
But when she straightens and turns, she's all but screaming as she starts at the appearance of him there. Very nearly, Preston comes close to screaming as well; he settles for being taken aback though, a half-step taken backwards, one hand lifted as if expecting to fend off an attack from his plucky leader.
"Well if you're turnin' fuckin' incontinent on me then I don't bloody well wanna know. Kinda shatters the mental picture I use at night, if ya know what I'm sayin there, luv," the Brit elaborates as only he can, his hand idly shifting along the shaft of his weapon.
The foreplay is dismissed with a shake of his head though. "No bloody ninja though, christ. It's not like I'm so bloody African, able to keep his eyes shut and blend in perfectly with the night..." he trails off there. It's for the best.
Shrugging those bare, broad shoulders of his, Preston shifts the oar off, letting it slide down to the ground. He maintains a loose grip, fingers poised and at the ready like always. "Anyway, uh. I was on the other side of the field and saw ya runnin', thought I'd come over and say hi..."
Again the tall boy trails off, free hand lifting to scratch at his jaw. He needs a shave really; stubble's all over. "Hi, I guess?"
Likely, had Marisol realized precisely what he were up to just before she turned around to unexpectedly greet the Brit, there would be a fist accompanying her words. Fortunately for Preston, she's not some psychic. He gets away with his perversions. For now, at least.
Still recovering from surprise, the girl's gray eyes remain wide as she stares up at the much taller Briton, her hand clutched dramatically to her chest. His words, however, earn him a scowl, gray eyes flashing with a light of hostility before she simply scoffs and turns her head to the side. "Fuckin' perv," she laments.
"And it was a statement, and you weren't supposed to take it literally. Christ!" Arms fly upwards, thrown into the air in a gesture of defeat. "You just surprised me, that's all! No sense in getting racist about it!" She pauses, casting a glance toward a few players who approach. Guess what the majority's ethnicity is..?
When the pass by, Marisol exhales softly, gently shaking her head as she holds her ground. Lifting an arm, she absently rubs the back of her neck before, slowly, those eyes drift up and peer at the Brit. He came to say hello?
A lopsided grin crosses her face.
"What, did you miss me or somethin'?" she replies, hands resting comfortably on her hips as she stands there. "Well, hello to you too, then. Still, I'm curious as to why you'd be out and about here. I always figured you were the sort to train over there--" A thumb jerks toward the adjacent beach in the distance.
"Waves, water, sand n'all that shit." She shrugs.
"Was that all, or..?"
This time, when he's called a pervert, the Brit seems to wear the label with pride; he grins down at the relatively diminutive girl, offering her a quick wink before the conversation turns elsewhere -- into the realms of racism, no less.
Preston watches as the assorted footballers go by, and he issues a sour grunt; he hardly seems fazed, but he's made his color commentary (rimshot) and doesn't intend on speaking of it any further -- particularly not when she clarifies. He notes the iPod pinned to her shorts. Why he's looking that far south is a story for another time.
"Miss you?" he echoes the words, and grunts a laugh. "Maybe starin' at ya tits," Preston clarifies, but his heart doesn't seem in it despite the fact he gives her chest a pointed look before he shrugs both arms up high and answers her question. "I normally do. Sand's easier on the knees, and I like bein' near the ocean and all, yeah... The view's better, conditions are usually more favorable, all that kinda shit."
Still though, is that all he wanted? The tall lad thinks about it, brow furrowing for a moment. It'll look pretty bad for him if he ONLY came over to say hi to her, won't it? That's what he thinks.
"Actually I was wonderin' if you wanted to work out together -- y'know, train, that kinda thing?" Why does he privately think it sounds like he's asking her on a date? He mentally stomps on the thought.
"That last little tussle we had at that arcade was barely enough for me to break a sweat. But uh. If you just wanna keep joggin', that's alright too. Just thought I'd ask."
His flattery gets him nowhere; if anything, the half-Spaniard's eyes hood sharply, lips pulling into a thin line across her face before she drops her hands from her hips. "Why are you such a pervert?" she asks, arms almost instantly folding over her chest in a sudden display of modesty. A frown etches its way over her tanned features.
"Tch. Jerk!"
But soon enough conversation shifts and, as result, the redhead eases up a bit. Dropping her arms, she rests them limply at her sides, eyes wandering toward the beach as he explains. "Is that so..?" she wonders aloud...though, slowly, those gray eyes slide back onto the Brit, before she adds with an impish grin, "Or is it because of the hot girls in bathing suits?"
Turning away, the redhead casts her eyes to the field, watching as the last of the football team packs up and heads elsewhere. In the stands, a few throngs of young girls scatter, following after the players. Exhaling, the girl lifts her arms up.
"Mmmm, work out?" she ponders aloud while stretching, her neck rolling gently before she exhales loudly again and puts her hands on her hips. Whatever his thoughts, it's clear the redhead has yet to misconstrue him. If anything, the girl smirks, at least until he mentions their previous fight.
Turning, she hoods her eyes as she stares up at him. "What does that mean??" she demands, hands balled into fists. "Are you saying it was too easy? Or are you suggesting that I'm not good enough to keep up with you?" Riled up, the girl all but bristles, her eyes fixed on Preston as she holds her ground.
"Sure, I'll train with you," she offers.
A split-second later she attempts to lash out and grab him by the pants before punching him in the face, attempting to ground the large British fighter.
"And I ain't going to fucking hold back, either!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol has started a fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Preston has joined the fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
COMBATSYS: Preston blocks Marisol's Medium Throw.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Preston
However much of a jerk and a pervert he is, it seems that Marisol may have hitt he nail on the head as to why he spends so much time on the beach; "It's winter now," he laments. "Not many girls are bravin' it, and those that do are usually those aged, wrinkly hags that do that swimmin' in the cold thing. Crazy Japs, I tell ya.
"Still, if you wanna go for a swim..." he adds, a grin growing on his face.
Still though, it seems that they're intent more on working out together in a less physically pleasuring and more physically painful manner. "Oh, I didn't mean tha--" Preston begins to explain his words concerning their fight in the arcade, only to have the shorts-wearing half-Spaniard aiming a fist at his grill as a hand graces his pants.
The fist meets his jaw, and there's a sour grunt as he otherwise asserts his weight advantage to prevent being thrown for a tumble. Those pants of his do end up riding a little high though, and he gives an irritated push at Marisol's shoulders as he seeks a moment to rather blatantly readjust himself.
"Christ girl, if you wanna get my fuckin' pants off, you know you just need to ask," he informs her, the scowl fading into a grin as the oar lifts off the ground and takes to the air.
It's a linear strike, the broad, flat expanse of the blade seeking to peg the girl square in the forehead and knock some sense into her, literally!
"Now what I was tryin' to say was that it wasn't much of a bloody fight, considerin' they were usin' us to whore off some game or whatever the hell it was," Preston finally explains himself. "But you sure did leap to a conclusion there, luv; feelin' a little insecure in your ability to handle me, are ya?"
Ah, how keen his insight is...
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Preston's Medium Strike.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Preston
"You underestimate girls like our dear Pás," the half-Spaniard reminds, shooting the Brit a swift glance before she looks to the ocean once more. "Besides, it's not THAT cold, or is that blue blood of yours too thin to handle a little bit of cold?" Another pause follows, a hand absently pulling at the tip of her ponytail as she further adds, "Besides, most people who hang out on the beach are students from Pacific, so don't blame the Japs."
But when he mentions their prior fight, it would seem the girl takes offense. A punch, the first, is swung at him, earning her a mild grumble from the imposing Brit. But try as she may to down the guy, he just refuses to budge. It draws a brief expression of annoyance from the girl, before she simply lets go and steps back.
"No, keep them ON," she commands, as the oar is brandished. Though it swings swiftly, the girl's arms shoot up, intercepting the oar against her forearms as she braces herself against his attack. A split-second after impact, the girl shoves, to push the oar off and away.
"Tch, don't you wish," she grunts in response, her hands erupting with yellow chi. Gray eyes widen briefly before she charges forward and swings her fists twice, a one-two attack aimed for his face before her body twists, both fists swung toward his broad chest, coupled with a burst of chi. "HAAH!"
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Marisol's El Matador.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|===----\-------\0 Preston
Perhaps it's because of his commentary -- his ongoing commentary, particularly as he takes a psychological edge to it in thinking that Marisol is lacking in confidence against the burly Briton -- but once the girl starts swinging those fists at him he doesn't particularly feel a need to get out of the way.
And momentarily he regrets it, as he feels the sting of pain that only Marisol's fists can provide. Grimacing, he weathers through the blows, two fists to the face and then a double-barreled blast of chi directly to the chest.
Stumbling backwards, Preston pinwheels his arms as he maintains his balance through force of will and a remarkably weight advantage alone. "Oh, that was cute -- why don't you moan like that for me again, luv? Nearly struck wood, I did..."
Again it would seem that the Brit is simply striving to get under her skin, be it sexually or simply to undermine her confidence with anger, outrage, modesty or embarrassment. Smirking, the brute streams forward, closing the gap as he seeks out that thin neck of hers for the expected.
"You know I love a wet t-shirt."
He aims to supply a choking grip with a hoist into the air and then the significant splatter of icy-cold chi against her face and torso. Oh Preston, you're such a card!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Marisol with Cape Horn Fever.
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Marisol 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Preston
Has he gotten to her on a psychological level? Or has she endured his lip long enough to separate truth from bullshit? Marisol isn't saying either way; instead, the girl swings her fists, letting them do the talking FOR her. Three strikes land, the last burst sending the tall Briton staggering, arms spinning before he regains his balance.
Narrowing gray eyes, the girl's lips dare to curl into some semblance of a smirk as the young man speaks. "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" she asks, lifting her chin as she folds her arms over her chest. "Sadly, the only wood you're going to touch me with is that--" Thrusting her arm forward, she points at the oar. "--silly weapon of yours. Don't you have a team to row with?"
He comes at her again, however, and with a frown the girl squares her shoulders and lets her feet part wide. She attempts to intercept his incoming hand, but he overpowers her; thus she is grabbed by the throat, an odd 'grrk' escaping her throat as she is hoisted up and ultimately blasted in the face with water. Or rather, chi embodying the essence of water; either way, it does the trick.
Fortunately, her athletic top isn't offering much a view.
"Ah, thanks," she remarks, sporting a toothy smirk. "I needed to cool off a little after that jog."
Then she swings a fist, a modest jab aimed for his nose. The real pain comes from the second, opposite fist; swinging it fiercely, she attempts to punch him in the side of his jaw. Hard.
COMBATSYS: Preston fails to interrupt Fierce Punch from Marisol with White Horses.
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Marisol 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Preston
Whatever wood Preston would like to use on Marisol, it's neither for the moment as he lifts and hoses her down as only he can. And with a quick glance down, he looks rather disappointed with the results.
Those clear eyes of his snap up as he sees movement though, beyond the standard struggles to escape his kung-fu grip. His free hand snaps, fingers beckoning -- but as a good friend of both combatants would say, there's no time!!
Struck in the nose, the Brit's essentially stunned for a brief moment as he sees red -- and his nose threatens to leak red. But the girl certainly has little intention of giving him time to recover; that other fist streaks for his jaw, and there's a sour grunt as his teeth clack together.
Reeling backwards, Preston's hand slips from her delicate throat and allows Marisol to return to the ground if she sees fit -- or to capitalize further!
The Brit though, he raises a hand to his nose to check for blood, his brow now furrowed with anger. "Christ, Mari; stop punchin' me in the fuckin' face, would ya? I make a livin' off these looks, and I know you'd be upset if I wasn't as bloody handsome as I clearly am."
Even through pain, he's close to comedic. What a different Preston from the one who first traded blows with Marisol, all those months ago.
Caught in the nick of time, Marisol is spared another cold shower, courtesy of Preston Alistair Wellington the Second. Instead, his jaw is crashed into with her fist, those gray eyes widening with obvious delight as she makes contact. Serves him right, trying to further douse the redhead in that chi water of his!
As he reels, the half-Spaniard falls to the ground, a light grunt escaping her as she is released. In that moment she glances at her side, toward the iPod clinging at her hip. Frowning slightly, she ponders the moment, giving him time to recover and complain about his mug. Marisol...just unfastens the device and tosses it carefully toward the football field.
"Quit cryin'," she commands, flashing another toothy grin. "All that whining...what are you? Three? Eight years old? Come on," Lifting her hands, she tightens them into solid fists. "Be a man, Preston. Bitching about your looks is so unattractive and feminine!" It would seem she's giving the Briton ample time to recover, rather than capitalize on his moment of vulnerability.
"You ARE a man, right?"
COMBATSYS: Marisol focuses on her next action.
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Marisol 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Preston
Thoroughly thwarted by the fists of the half-Spaniard, the Brit attempts comedy that's ill-received by the girl he spares with there on the athletic track. The other people using it, mostly girls for some reason, simply run by while giving the fighting pair dirty looks. Couldn't they at least take it onto the grass?
"Oh, that's not cryin'," Preston begins, only to fail to elaborate further. Well, if his attempt to make light humor of his predicament failed... then he just won't try again. His brow furrows.
And then she asks that question. He squints at her.
Squint.
"This'd be where I go and offer to show you just how much of a bloody man I am, but why be so predicable?" Preston laments with a shrug of his broad shoulders. The oar is lifted, twirled so very easily with thick fingers that prove quite nimble, the young man not about to let her go resting on her laurels -- if she's being 'kind' enough to give him the chance to do the same, then he'll reward her kindness with pain!
Thus he pivots forward, the twirl of the oar ceased with a violent, sudden thrust forward of his signature weapon. It's aimed for her sizeable forehead, the goal to knock her right onto her equally sizeable ass!
"Think fast, girl!"
If it hits, she might be thinking slow for a bit.
COMBATSYS: Marisol fails to interrupt Bunting Tosser from Preston with Red Clover.
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Marisol 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Preston
"That's crying if I've ever heard it," the girl quips back, gray depths narrowed before she tosses her head. "And I don't like men who whine." Lifting a hand from her side, the girl points a finger, her grin blossoming into a full-fledged smirk. "And I certainly don't like whiners on the team. Do you understand?"
If not, she taps her forehead gently with a slender finger.
His remark earns him a scoff, a hand waving about as she otherwise dismisses his lamentation. "I'd rather you not, so please. Keep your pants on, okay?" Briefly do her gray eyes snap shut, a light exhale offered before she opens them again, the sound of his oar cutting through the air.
And right for her face.
She moves then, a hand suddenly attempting to jerk forward and intercept it by the blade with her forearm. But she is far too slow, her timing off; instead, she's struck at an odd angle, sent staggering from the impact with a loud grunt of discomfort. Lifting a calloused palm, she rubs at her face, eyes narrowed.
"You fuckin' jerk," she hisses. "The face? Really?" It's her turn to complain. Narrowing her eyes, the girl's expression darkens, hinted only with the faintest tinge of amusement, hidden behind those lively gray eyes.
"If you're going to play cheap, I'm going to go for your bollocks next."
It's a threat.
It seems that Preston is starting to understand all too well just what Marisol prefers as far as men and members of the team are going; he's eerily reminded of how his father treats his mother.
But that thought fades like an ill omen as he hurtles that oar for her forehead, striking true as her defenses prove inadequate against the swift, explosive nature of his fighting style. The oar strikes with an emphatic whack, sending her backwards, and there's a smirk on the boy's face as he observes the red mark of its wake upon her countenance.
"Don't make promises your mouth won't fit around," Preston replies to the threat against his undercarriage, hazel eyes momentarily rolling as he reels the oar back in to his side. Immediately he begins twirling it in front of him again, his defense plain.
"Although I wager you're about to protest and tell me how gross the idea of sucklin' on my grapefruits are, right?" His head cocks to the side, an easy grin on his face. Is he getting to know her, truly?
Regardless, their fight continues. The twirling of the oar never ceases, but it seems that he's spending a moment to think and plot out his course of attack. As he considers, his feet wander, taking him off the track and onto the long-jump sandpit. Certainly, he knows her style of fighting; explosive, painful, nearly as dominating as his own. Exploiting weaknesses always proves a mishmash of success and failure, given the speed she brings to the table.
All the same though, he doesn't give her time to catch her breath. The oar stops its rotation, blade poised above the ground. He slides slightly past his weapon as he drives it downwards, and with a fling sends sand for her eyes!
He must really want his balls touched.
COMBATSYS: Marisol dodges Preston's Thrown Object.
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Marisol 0/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Preston
Still nursing the point of impact, the half-Spaniard scowls softly, his words earning him a mild glare as she holds her ground. Really; the Briton has a terrible mouth on him. How does he expect to flatter anyone with his colorful language? If anything, his suggestion causes her nose to wrinkle, a disgusted look etching itself upon her face before she sharply turns her head and exhales.
"You're such a pervert! That's disgusting." An eye opens, peering toward the large Brit and staring a moment before she lets a smirk crawl over her mouth. "And I think you're giving yourself FAR too much credit, Preston." Lifting a hand to her chin, she gently taps with a finger before she adds,
"Yes. FAR, far too much credit."
The moment ends when he brings his oar into action once more. Gray eyes flicker down, watching as it drives a course right for the ground at his feet. It earns him a soft frown, those depths immediately shooting back up, to meet his gaze. Then...he jerks his arm.
But rather than get a sand full of face, the girl weaves sharply to one side, avoiding the cheap attack altogether. "There you go again!" she cries, driving forward for the youth. "You ASS, I WARNED you--!!"
And with one, rather predictable crouch low, her arm tenses...before she swings it upwards in a savage motion, an uppercut aimed for the twigs 'n' berries.
COMBATSYS: Preston endures Marisol's Uppercut Punch.
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Marisol 1/-------/=======|=======\=------\1 Preston
However disgusting and pervert...ing Preston proves to be, he seems to favor the very same cheap play that Marisol has promised will earn him a swift punch to the winning tackle. Thus, when she so easily evades the sweeping sand, there's still a smirk on his face as she charges for him.
He thinks his gonads are impervious to pain.
He thought wrong.
The fist slams into his undercarriage, and there's a distinct moment where something feels so very, very wrong, and a feeling of utter breathlessness sweeps through the body of the towering Brit.
"oh dear."
With a voice entirely too high for someone who usually speaks so deep, the young man (?!) staggers backwards, fingers nearly losing their grip on the oar as he comes close to falling over. He grounds the weapon, keeping himself upright through sheer force of will.
"oh i think i'm bleeding..."
Ruse or fact?! Either way, Preston suddenly seems hell bent on ensuring that Marisol joins him in this state. He twists the oar sideways, the blade held flat -- and drives it an upwards steak, aimed right for her clam bake!
COMBATSYS: Marisol dodges Preston's Deep Strike.
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Marisol 1/-------/=======|=======\==-----\1 Preston
The impact is brutal, the half-Spaniard having pulled no punches in her particularly forward and brazen attack. There's a strange look on her face, in the instant he takes the blow below the belt, a look of satisfaction, mixed with a bit of sadistic glee. Yes, he deserved this, she believes. He only brought it upon himself, she is sure to mentally note.
Despite the pleasure of his misfortune, the girl doesn't gloat or rub it in his face. Instead, she withdraws swiftly, her arm pulled back, coiled tightly at her hip. She keeps a keen eye on the Brit, as he nearly collapses from the grief of impact. Maybe she'll apologize later. But, again.
He kind of deserves it.
The slightest nuance noted from his body, the redhead is on alert when his arm tenses. Gray depths widen before they harshly hood, watching as he twists the oar. ..before he attempts to lodge it rather firmly between her legs. Oh, he SO deserved the punch to the nuts, she reminds herself.
Twisting her body, she weaves aside once more, avoiding the potentially brutal impact altogether. Secretly the girl is relieved. That could have been BAD.
"You ass!" she cries, an arm jerking to life as she thrusts forward a slender digit. "What is your obsession with my personal space? Honestly!" Exhaling sharply, the girl shakes her head once, her ponytailed mane swaying harshly before she lunges at the youth, fists aglow with yellow chi. Her goal is simple - closing in, she will suddenly thrust both fists forward, energy swelling as she otherwise intends on blasting him back, perhaps to land upon his duff if he should not be careful..!
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Moon Sling.
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Marisol 1/------=/=======|=======\====---\1 Preston
That SHOULD have been bad, but clearly the winded Brit isn't working at peak performance anymore thanks to the thorough punching to his nads he took moments prior. She evades his strike, and inwardly he grimaces from more than just the numbness he feels spreading from his loins.
Regardless though, it seems Preston is forced on the defensive -- and it still isn't enough. She charges him, closing the gap, and blasts him back with a double-barreled blast of power. Momentarily, he loses his footing.
But this is Preston. Knocking him down isn't all that easy.
Instead his toes dig deep, despite the shoes he's wearing, and he slides back as the energy of the strike washes through his body. Leaning his massive frame forward, he maintains his footing, instead dipping into a three-point stance.
And then the world starts to seem a little more red than normal.
Breathing a heavy snort of air out of his nose, the proverbial bull drags his equally proverbial hoof across the grass as he eyes off his target. She fancies herself a matador at times, and he's about to prove yet again how dangerous that occupation is. The last time he did this, it was for fun and perversion; this time, it's to cause a ripple of pain, if not more.
With a burst of speed, he charges at her, head rearing up as his forehead glistens with sweat and the catching of afternoon light. It's that expanse of skin and the dense bone beneath that plummets for her, aiming to catch her right across the collarbone and potentially -- but very unlikely -- snap the bone clear in twain.
An angry bull, he follows it up with an uppercut to clear the debris from his fake horns, a blistering strike from the girth of his free arm!
COMBATSYS: Preston successfully hits Marisol with Bull of Barney.
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Marisol 1/-======/=======|===----\-------\0 Preston
@emit
Knocking the Briton back, the girl is swift to recoil from the attack, gray eyes narrowed. She observes, lips pulled tightly across her sun-kissed face as he maintains his footing, despite the efforts to knock him down. Secretly it disappoints her. He should be easier to knock down than THAT. Especially after taking one to the jimmy.
Maybe he is more man than she presumed?
Softly the half-Spaniard scowls, as Preston exhales and drags a foot across the turf. There is a moment of silence between the two, as the Briton suddenly becomes serious about this spar. He wants to cause her pain? Good.
She wouldn't want it any other way.
The moment he pushes off and charges her like a bull, the girl becomes defensive. Again her arms lift and with a soft grunt she pushes forward. Her intent is simple: she will meet him halfway and stop his head from crashing into her. She knows this attack..!
But that isn't good enough.
Her hands intercept, but the sweat causes her to slip, losing her grip on his bald head. Immediately gray eyes open wide, her expression one of disbelief...before she cries out in pain, his forehead crashing into her collarbone with a harsh and sudden impact. The force knocks the wind out of her lungs, her body reeling in grief. That is, of course, until he punches her in the jaw.
Sent skyward, the girl's body limply flies through the air, a graceful upward arc that would likely bring the tear to a physicist's eye. And, as always, what goes up must come down. But not likely as Preston intends.
With a harsh twist, Marisol repositions her body mid-fall, landing against the track feet first with a loud grunt and a grit of her teeth. And the moment she touches down, the redhead wastes no time in capitalizing on that moment. For immediately she pushes off with the toes of her back foot, springing forward at the imposing youth with her fists on fire...
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Preston with Cloud Nine.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ < > //// ]
Marisol 0/-------/-----==|=======\-------\1 Preston
Without mercy, Marisol swings her fist at Preston's face.
Not pulling a single punch, the half-Spaniard's fiery fist crashes into his jaw, a savage right hook intent on sending spittle flying, if not blood. But she does not hold back; another fist, a left hook. Then another, a right hook again. She only pauses to suddenly snap her head up, locking eyes with the youth.
A split-second later, she jumps AT his face, her forehead crashing into his face for an awkward headbutt.
Grinning a savage smile as she falls back, she simply coils a fist tightly at her side, her body dipping briefly, before she delivers unto the Briton a chi-laced uppercut to send him flying..!
Maybe.
Perhaps that was Preston's intent all along, simply to literally sweep the girl off her feet with that tremendously hurtful uppercut of his. After slipping through her grasp to provide that headbutt, he follows through with the strike of his arm into her head, lifting her skyward!
And thus he watches as she sails, picking out early by her movements that it hasn't been enough to render her unconscious; the fight will continue, and he's breathing a little hard. Despite the adrenaline rush he's on, he doesn't foresee himself standing for much longer.
So thus, she lands and springs at him, a cat intent on going for the eyes. His attempt to lift the oar up into a defensive catch for that thundering fist fails; she catches him across the jaw, indeed sending spit flying from his mouth, and follows it up with a fast one-two combo that gets him seeing stars.
Her gray eyes may stare into his hazel, but it seems plain that the boy has already checked out. Nevertheless, she returns the favor, driving her broad forehead into his own, that grin carving her face as she charges her laser and uppercuts him right off his feet!
But really, he weighs a good hundred pounds more than she does, and she's a girl! It's not like he gets a lot of air.
He does however land on his ass, sliding a short ways as he grunts. There's something acutely embarrassing about the fact that she's defeated him; is this what he gets for being nice and coming over to say hi?
Gingerly he climbs back to his feet, leaning on the oar for support. Once upright, Preston touches his jaw before a finger slips in to start feeling his teeth for any looseness. Finding nothing wrong, he heaves a sigh, and just looks at her as he continues to lean on the oar.
"Well now that that's over with," he says, pausing to spit out blood, "you wanna grab a bite to eat? I'm fuckin' hungry now."
COMBATSYS: Preston takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ <
Marisol 0/-------/-----==|
COMBATSYS: Preston can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ <
Marisol 0/-------/-----==|
Irregardless of his coherency, the girl pursues without fail, going all-out on the youth as she is oft wont to do. Riding the adrenaline high, likely no thanks to Preston's previous attack, she headbutts him and ultimately punches, intent on launching the young man and giving him unto him what he had given unto her. It's only fair.
When he lands, the last of that dandelion-yellow energy licks desperately toward the blue skies above, her extended arm returning to her side. Turning slowly, the girl faces Preston as he gets back onto his feet and off his duff, supported by the oar in hand. He only brought it upon himself! He offered the spar!
Regardless, a grin blooms, her eyes bright as he sighs. Dropping from a defensive posture and stance, the girl laces her arms behind her back, bending forward gently at the waist as she laughs. "What? So soon? You're finished practicing?" A soft 'aww' follows, full lips easing into a coy pout as she bats her lashes. She doesn't push the subject.
Instead, Marisol exhales and drops her arms as she turns her back. A moment later they stretch to the sky, a loud, girly grunt delivered before she again sighs, content. "Food huh?" she ponders aloud, idly gnawing her bottom lip. Well...she did kind of punch him in the nuts.
Glancing over a shoulder, she sports a grin. "Sure. Just get my iPod, okay? And please, for the love of all things sacred, put a shirt on before we venture out into public?" Turning away from him once more, she folds her arms as she sighs.
"It's bad enough you traipse around here without one. Really. If you can't find one that fits, get some tailored. ...or something!"
COMBATSYS: Marisol has ended the fight here.
"Yeah, I'm done for now," Preston replies begrudgingly, perhaps a touch embarrassed by how swiftly (?!) the fight has ended between the two of them -- and with her the victor for a change. Privately, he can't help but wonder; was he taking it easy on her, due to... complications? It's something he'll need to think about later.
Still though, he makes the offer to go for a bite to eat, which is almost contrary to the thoughts he was having concerning any potential complications that might be arising in his ability to dispense pain to the leader of the team.
When she replies with an affirmative though, the grin on her face is mirrored. "What, you lost your 'pod?" the Brit questions her, hazel eyes turning down to the grass and the track below in an attempt to find it. If she has indeed, then he'll try and find it for her and return it by lobbing it in her direction. Isn't he helpful?!
Admonished concerning his state of dress though, the boy grunts. He turns and starts in the direction of the dorms. "Hey, nobody'd complain if you went around topless either, luv," he drolly remarks, before lifting those broad shoulders of his in a shrug.
Inwardly, the girl is praising herself. Fighting, and ultimately beating, Preston is no easy task. Though it may be practice, it pleases her to know that her efforts are, in fact, paying off. Whether or not the punch to his sack was a help, well. She doesn't really mull over it. He's a big boy. He'll be fine!
"Er, no," she explains, gesturing a hand outwards, toward the grass. "I threw it aside when you were throwing water at me. I didn't want it to break." A grin flashes over her lips, gray eyes bright before she exhales and gently shakes her head. "Honestly. Had I known you were going to pull that stunt I would have been more careful!" Another sigh escapes her.
When she hears the device whiz right for her, the half-Spaniard quickly and clumsily reaches up in an attempt to catch it before it falls and breaks. "H-hey, watch it!" she exclaims with a wide-eyed expression of disbelief. "You break it, you buy me another!" Fortunately it's already being tucked away into the tiny pocket at her hip.
"That's a bad argument," she calls, as she begins to walk toward the main campus. "Besides, Pás is the one who does that, not me." Not that anyone IS complaining about the Brazilian girl's half-dressed (or is that half-naked) antics. It draws a sharp laugh from Marisol as she waves a hand over her shoulder.
"Fine fine, see you in a bit. And thanks for the workout. I needed it," the girl adds, sounding a touch sincere.
Then she laughs. "Loser buys!"
"But fine, I'll go grab one and have a quick shower. Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes?"
Log created on 00:05:26 12/11/2007 by Marisol, and last modified on 20:17:06 12/13/2007.