Description: While attempting to enjoy a relatively quiet (for once) night getting drunk, Grigori discovers that Pás is a noisy Brazilian who loves her some fútbol. What's an angry Russian to do? Harass, of course! But all attempts to unnerve and/or harass the girl fail--fail hard, and the Russian soon discovers that Pás is crazy--in love..??
Late Friday afternoon, and already the Shanghai Sports Bar is busy--and for good reason:
It's Friday night, and home of the cheapest beer in town from five to midnight.
All around the bar are a variety of people, old and young, all of whom enjoy themselves and the lively atmosphere. On the flat screen televisions scattered around the bar are a myriad of various sports for watch, the occasional play or two drawing a loud cheer from various places around the bar. It's nice and generally pleasant and very welcoming.
But Grigori...couldn't give two shits.
He's an anomaly here, a large and rather imposing figure hunched over the bar at the far end. He didn't come here for the sports, and he certainly didn't come here for the bullshit comradery of after-work chums looking to 'hang out' and 'have a good time brah.' No--Grigori Yakushevic came to the Shanghai Sports Bar for one thing only:
All the goddamned beer he could drink, which is precisely what the Russian occupies his time with. Perched like some surly and cold gargoyle atop his stool, pale blue eyes focused on the large frozen glass before him and the beer within. Already on his fourth beer, the man seems to be working toward his fifth, the cold glass half-empty.
"This beer," he mulls aloud in a low grumble to no one in particular.
"Is awful." He takes a sip regardless. "Bartender man,"
A skinny young college boy looks up from wiping down a few glasses. "Yessir?"
"This beer...on tap? Where did you get? From toilet?"
The kid's face blanches. "Uhh, no? Is there a problem?"
"There IS a problem!" The beer glass is thunked down heavy, the Russian's face angry as he stares the bartender down. "I paid for good beer, and all I get is porter shithouse! Is this some joke?? Are you funny guy?"
"Uhh, no? I can get you another, i-if you like?"
"Damn right you will, pridúrok!"
You don't have a sports bar without each of the ten billion flat screen T.Vs all turned on and playing some live match. Baseball lurks at one side of the bar. Boxing at the other. At one corner of the bar, a bunch of drinking Australians scream at cricket. And, at another corner, the television normally devoted to tennis has been turned to soccer.
Brazilian futbol.
A sudden chorus of shouts wail in harmony from that same bar corner.
"NAAAO! Douga! O que, psiu?! O que é isto? Aiiiiiii," rages one voice in particular, belonging to a frantic Brazilian girl who flings her arms up in the air, and, in a wild and distinctly South American flurry of gestures, tells off the television in her mother tongue. The screen flashes with the image of a player cheering off his latest goal, heralded by the frantic roars of the stadium audience. Not quite ready to agree with the play, this girl's angry Portuguese strings on for a good two minutes straight, and then she pauses distinctly, not to breathe, but to kick back a gulp of her drink. It's root beer.
With a ragged sigh, the girl sags back down to her couch, finding a snug, half-cramped place among a pile of local teen boys who have come to roust. One does not need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out why. Wearing tight pants and a stringy little halter top, that exotic girl slings her arm around the shoulders of one of them, hugging affectionately as she leans in, her language switched off Portuguese to a quilted patchwork of English and Japanese, sounding like she's helpfully explaining the game as it continues along. But her eyes never leave the television screen.
Sao Paulo vs the Corinthians. Pás wouldn't look away for the apocalypse.
At the Russian's fierce and insulting order, the bartender rushes forward, collecting the man's glass hurriedly before he skirts off to replace it. As result Grigori lets forth a cocky smirk, dry lips edging back over white teeth, pale blue eyes hooded as he watches the kid. Smug and proud of his accomplishment, the man's shoulders sink a bit, elbows loudly hitting the bar top with a loud 'thunk.'
It's going to be a dull night, he decides. Picking on the bartender is no sport.
But, suddenly from behind the Russian, a loud roar of South American cheer snapping the man out of his thoughts, an eye twitching and ticking nervously in response. And slowly does the man incline his head, turning to glare an irritable gaze over a single broad shoulder toward the source. There does he spy a dark-skinned Brazilian girl slinging insults at an unresponsive television.
He stares for a good solid three minutes, watching her every move.
Only when the Brazilian girl sulks onto the couch and cuddles the nearest (male) warm body does the man stir. Letting a low groan escape him, he eases himself off his bar stool just as the scrawny bartender wanders back with a beer.
"Uhh, sir?" the young man asks, giving the imposing Russian a questioning stare as Grigori turns his back to the kid. The beer is set down, but it does not distract the older man from his train of thought; he just keeps moving, leaving the bar behind.
A minute later the couch begins to sag considerably, the cushions to the free side of Pás suddenly caving inwards. A glance to the side would reveal the obvious: someone has taken it upon themselves to sit down by the girl. And that person is Grigori Yakushevic.
"Izvinite, miss, and dobriy vecher," the man begins slowly, excusing himself to her in his Native tongue. Without so much as asking, an arm drapes itself haphazardly around the Brazilian girl's shoulder, dry lips easing into a chilly grin. The boys near Pás are prompt to edge away. The man is twice their size.
"I could not help but notice...you with the making of so much noise. Do you think,"
He reaches out and cups her chin gingerly, lifting it as he softly coos, the stink of beer on his breath.
"You could be quiet?" His blue eyes half-lid ever so discreetly...before he drops his arm off her shoulder and quite forwardly pats the girl on her upper thigh, offering her a light wink and a soft click from his lips. "I would not want to have to get upset with such a pretty and exotic young woman, da?"
And with that, Grigori begins to rise from the couch.
Pás loves playing dumb. It's the quickest road to entertainment.
That's what she's doing when Grigori Yakushevic starts heading her way. The young boys swarming around her seem to squirm and flutter like uneasy birds in the presence of a true predator, something that's wandered over to this promising pond for his deserved drink. But the Brazilian center of attention looks as oblivious as they get, with her arm still looped around the shoulders of one of her new friends, with her eyes plastered on the television screen, and with her very first glimpse of the Russian seen through her peripherals. The ghost of a smile rises from the grave to haunt her mouth. Her lips curve ever so slowly at the corners.
This is not the first time Pás has won the attention of older men. And it's probably not the last. It's never been a problem for her, and she learned from a much younger age to handle herself in situations like these. The secret is to beat them at their own game. It's to start before they can, so that they never get a chance. Most men never even expect it. They don't even get a chance to get their bearings. It lets her stay in control. It also lets her have a lot of fun.
The couch sighs as it's forced to weather a new weight. The young boy on her other side skidaddles. A large shadow swallows her up. A dark voice speaks into her ear. A heavy arm falls over her shoulders. And Pás just bites her lip so not to grin. It's been a while since she's been on the receiving end of attention like this. But it's nothing that she hasn't experienced before. Time to get to work. Play the game.
...Fall in love.
The Pacific girl puts on her most impressive poker face, exhales a deep breath, looks up, and gazes into the most beautiful face she's ever seen. All the pretense of emotion dies and falls off her face. Her eyes widen. pupils shrink. Her jaw drops a little. She doesn't remember ever seeing anyone look like that.
No longer playing dumb, now it's more a genuine kind of stupidity busily staring up at Grigori.
Unable to talk, unable to breathe, unable to exist alongside the sheer breathtaking presence of him, all she can reply the touch to her chin is with fierce and sudden blushing, her dark skin unable to hide the embarrassed reddening. But she can't pull away. She couldn't even if she wanted to. And she doesn't want to. She's never been in love, but she was always sure that she'd know it as soon as she felt it. And this has to be love.
As the mysterious Russian man pulls away with a merry pat to her thigh -- the action earning a flaring of her eyes and a quick, jerky exhale -- he seems to have found what he was looking for. She's no longer noisy. In fact, she's very, very quiet. Staring and a little too quiet.
She doesn't even speak until he's halfway off the couch, leaning forward intently, perhaps looking a little dismayed to see Grigori go. Pás is a smitten kitten, looking on with big wide eyes as she asks, very hasily, "How-- do I know when you are upset?"
It would seem the tables have turned on Pás today.
Quite comfortable there on the couch with one arm lazily draped over the girl, the Russian man at her side sporting a wolf-like smile. Her reaction...is positively priceless, as pale blue eyes peer down at the much darker girl. It isn't every day a woman reacts as such in the presence of the ill-tempered and ill-mannered man. Most women shove him away. Once, he thinks he was sprayed with mace. But always--always--is it amusing to him.
And always worth it.
But Pás does not struggle or argue; instead she stares up at the Russian, unable to find her voice in that fateful moment. Whether it is love or mere infatuation with the rather forward and imposing figure at her side, he asks her a simple request: just be quiet. Let him enjoy his beer in peace.
"Ah, is good girl," he ultimately adds, giving her thigh a heavy pat on the thigh that earns a curious response; unfortunately, it falls upon deaf ears. The broad-shouldered man eases himself up off the couch, its frame exhaling a groan of relief as his weight is lifted from it. Once on his feet again, his shoulders lazily roll, large hands easing themselves into the pockets of his dark, dusty jeans as he looks to the bar.
His beer awaits him.
But just as the man begins to walk away, there comes a question from the young woman smitten. His response is a series of actions in that moment; first the man turns slowly, followed by a slight tilt of his head. Half-facing the wide-eyed Brazilian girl, his lips slowly but surely pull into another toothy, roguish smirk.
"Ah, Kiska," he offers her in a low, deep tone, his body bending forward at the waist to level his gaze on the dark eyes that helplessly stare up at him. "If you must know when I am upset...well...things begin to break."
Straightening his back, the man turns away once more, as he adds,
"Bones, especially, Kiska."
It's a rare thing indeed what could possibly steal Pás' attention off Brazilian futbol. The game plays on. The Corinthians -- her most favourite, treasured team -- battle for the win.
But this fan is too busy staring at Grigori to notice. The Russian has her total, undivided, and adoring attention as he leans on in, stealing away her personal space and replacing it with his dangerous smiling. Pás leans back as he leans forward, until her head is nestled against the back of the sofa, her dark eyes locked on his pale ones.
God seriously shouldn't make them this beautiful. He doesn't. This is Cristo come down to get her every time she missed mass. Come to punish her for every single one of her sins. Mea culpa. As he gets in close, she can feel the blush rising back in her cheeks, that prickly warmth that seems to accessorize the way her stomach flops over. He's mysterious. He's foreign. He's beautiful.
And she's pretty sure he just threatened her with bodily harm. This guy is so cool. He's got to be the coolest guy she's ever seen.
And now he's going away. He's leaving. He's uninterested. Pás sits up a little straighter, the first expression to resettle her face being that unsure little frown. She's far from being finished with this guy. And he's far from finished with her. Maybe she's got to prove something.
He turns away, leaving behind that wide-eyed, doe-faced little Brazilian girl, still half-draped across the couch. She makes no further question. She doesn't even make a sound.
Grigori has won his silence.
Too bad he also didn't request to not get kicked in the back of the head. Because the second he puts his back to her, she moves, grabbing the arm of the couch with both hands and going inverted, swinging both hips to try to crack both feet straight at him.
COMBATSYS: Pas has started a fight here.
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Pas 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Grigori has joined the fight here.
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Pas 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grigori
COMBATSYS: Grigori just-defends Pas' Medium Kick!
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Pas 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Grigori
For all her admiration and disbelief, it all goes relatively unnoticed by the surly Russian. Instead, pale blues lock onto doe-like brown eyes, peering intently at the young woman seated before him. Armed with a dangerous smile and distantly-dark words, he lays things out clearly for the girl; after all, Pás was interested in what tends to happen when he's angry.
But the moment doesn't last and, with the quietest of sighs, the Russian man straightens to full height. With a languid, almost lazy posture he turns and leaves the Brazilian girl behind, his sharp features riddled with a dry smirk as he paces toward the bar. He has sufficiently scared her, he privately surmises. Things are as they ought to be.
Things aren't all right, though. Pás isn't quite finished with Grigori's company.
Despite the buzz and noise of the loud bar humming in the man's ears, the distant and too-familiar sound of abrupt movement graces his sharp ears. In an instant pale eyes widen, dry lips falling from a smirk into a thin line as he plants his boots' heels down hard. Something is coming...
The moment Pás' feet crack into the man's skull, something happens. Rather than hit Grigori dead-on, the Brazilian girl's feet have dead walled right in the center of the Russian's leathery palm. An arm extended and slightly crooked, he keeps the young capoeirista's legs at bay, powerful legs rendered utterly harmless.
"Oh, Kiska," the man says, shaking his head gravely as blue eyes draw to a solemn close. "I was hoping I had scareds you. But it would seem that little Kiska wishes to press my buttons?" His pale eyes open, the center of Grigori's palm tensing before, rather suddenly, his hand closes like a beartrap, long, calloused fingers clenched fiercely around her foot.
"Very well," the Russian offers with a frighteningly calm tone.
Then he twists his torso, his arm swinging wide, Pás in tow. He has every intention of hurling the exotic young capoeirista across the bar, straight for the wall with a loud bellow, shouting:
"I WILL OBLIGE KISKA!"
COMBATSYS: Grigori successfully hits Pas with Quick Throw.
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Pas 0/-------/-----==|-------\-------\0 Grigori
His hand stops her feet cold.
The entire bar goes silent. Not a peep. Not a fart. And the owner behind the counter allows himself a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose. This headache is a familiar one. It's of the Great, More Fucking Fighters In My Place variety.
As for the Brazilian girl, she finds her sudden, silent attack stopped as easily as catching a feather out of the air, allowing Grigori his deserved moment of stunned, wide-eyed staring. Very imperceptively, she bites down on her bottom lip.
A heartbeat later, he pitches her across the pub like a pillow, her careening body impacting and skidding down the length of the bar, hitting and throwing and spilling drinks in her broken glass wake. She careens along and falls off the end and out of sight, her nasty fall only heralded by the heavy thwack of flesh and her pained little grunt.
And the rest is silence. Heavy silence. Perhaps that was enough to end her.
Pás jumps back up to her feet a moment later, popping back up to life from behind the counter, waving one enthusiastic hand. "I'm OK!"
Breathing hand, grinning like a fool, and wearing a new smear of blood at her forehead, her dark eyes aim wildly on Grigori. Pás cannot look away. If she wasn't in love with him before...! He's even cooler than she thought. He's an angel.
Grinning like a jack-o-lantern, the girl starts to laugh, harshly, wildly, and for so long it makes her breathless. "Ufa, that was hurt!" she exclaims as soon as she can through her reckless giggles. "That hurt so many. --Will you do me again, yea?! Plas?? Ha ha ha ha, but you do harder now!! HAAA!"
Planting both hands on the counter, she suddenly mounts back on it like a gymnast on her balance beam, standing tall at one end of the long length of marble. The Brazilian takes one moment to tie back her hair, and then she's off like a gunshot, taking a running start and twisting sharply, throwing her weight overhead and performing a series of sharp, flipping handsprings in her wake. She pushes off the last, leaping from the bar and back at the Russian, her light, flexible body turning crazed angles through the air.
She comes at him through the air while upside-down, one long leg thrust out and down like an axe -- but, at the last minute, the attack suddenly pulls, as that kicking leg instead tries to catch the man by the back of the neck with her ankle. There, a very suspended and still upside-down Pás tries to sneak her elbow straight into his groin.
COMBATSYS: Grigori blocks Pas' Eshu's Hat.
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Pas 0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0 Grigori
It was the intercepted kick heard 'round the world.
At that moment, a frightening silence fills the bar from roof to floor, save for the senseless chatter of the numerous televisions scattered throughout. And at the center of it, the young Pás caught in the steely grasp of Grigori, and a very amused-looking Russian man staring back at the Brazilian girl. The corners of his lips twitch, the older man offering her a dangerous smile.
Without mercy the man hurls the girl across the bar, likely to the owner's chagrin. Her tossed body sends debris flying every which way, patrons ducking and yelling as they weave aside, narrowly missing the Brazilian missile aimed for that distant wall.
As for Grigori? He just offers a sharp, cold laugh, hands again easing into his pockets.
"Silly little Kiska, what did I tell you?" he asks the silence, a few wide-eyed patrons looking at the ill-tempered Russian. Why would he do such a thing? Nevermind Pás started the fight. And just when Grigori believes that his work here is truly finished...
An enthusiastic Pás leaps up and waves. Grigori's eyes widen a fraction, jaw slack behind his lips.
"Kakógo chërta," the man mutters deeply, shaking his head ever so faintly.
But then the unthinkable. Like the crazy girl with the silver hair, she asks him to hit her harder. She wants him to beat the shit out of her? "Yes, yes I can," the man promises, brows lofting slightly as his dry lips pull back over his teeth. He watches, as the Brazilian exercises grace and flexibility, those blue depths narrowing ever so slightly as his smile grows.
Ohh, one of THOSE girls. The smile broadens, a perverted smirk as he watches her closely.
When Pás tears off like a sprinter after the starting gun, Grigori's smirk fades in favor of a scowl. Never once do those eyes leave the girl as she leaps through the air from the bar, right for his bulky frame. A leg descends for his body, but an arm swings up, intercepting her leg behind his neck after the feint. His other hand swings low as Pás dangles, intercepting her elbow just millimeters before it grinds into his crotch.
The man privately thanks God.
Like a lion the man roars, one leg sliding back as his arm moves, trying to pry her leg off his neck. At the same time, the opposite leg suddenly jerks to life and, with one swift jerk, drives right for Pás' noggin, to stun her...and get her off of him.
"I AM NOT YOUR JUNGLE GYM!"
COMBATSYS: Pas counters Light Kick from Grigori with Branded Mule.
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Pas 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Grigori
Either crazy, stupid, or just plain suicidal, Pás dangles off Grigori like a worm off a hook, becoming rather aware of how large, how hard, how bulky, and how muscular he is while this close. While his swift, intercepting hand stops her elbow from making fast friends with his Jewels of the Romonov, it's not swift enough to keep the girl from getting a good eyeful. She blushes hotly.
Objects in pants are larger than they appear.
Pás peeks up at Grigori, beaming while upside-down. "But you are such fun to climb!"
Movement scrapes off her peripherals, and grinning, she moves fast. His leg snaps up to try to kick her clingy body free, but at that same instant, her hand thrusts down, grabbing him by the knee and forcing his attack away and his leg to the side. Her foot unhooks off his neck. And she drops, suddenly and deftly moving through the man's opened legs and popping back up at his turned back, snapping out both legs to meet it with a sharp, dual kick. Sparks flicker from the soles of her feet. Chi crackles out of nowhere, and explodes straight on impact.
Hopefully this will be proof enough of her undying love!
From the moment Pás kicked her feet at Grigori, he knew one thing:
This Brazilian girl is crazy, stupid AND suicidal.
There is a moment of tense silence between the two, intensely pale blue eyes staring down at the girl hanging from his neck by her leg. In one hand rests her elbow, long fingers curled quite firmly into her body appendage, for good reason: one slip and it could very well be dobroy nochi to his family jewels. Sadly, the girl's heated blush goes unnoticed.
And for good reason: Grigori is just plain irritated.
"ARGH! Get off me, kiska!!" he bellows, his leg jerking, to knee her in the skull. But it does not make the deliciously crunchy impact he was hoping for; instead, a hand intercepts his knee, earning the Brazilian girl a blank expression. That wasn't supposed to happen...
And neither was the sudden motion of Pás weaving between his legs, driving both of her feet straight into the Russian's ass. Impact lands and, as a result, a burst of crackling chi explodes against his body, sending the Russian man stumbling forward, arms waving at his sides to steady his balance. He finds it in four broad steps.
Immediately after the tall Russian whips around, eyes wide as he stares the girl down. "Oh, Kiska. Kiska, Kiska, Kiska," he states darkly, head shaking solemnly side to side before those eyes fix entirely on her. A slow breath enters his lungs, the man's chest puffing up broadly as he deeply inhales. He holds it within for a few seconds, until...
The Russian cuts the silence with another loud bellow.
And again, he's off. Charging like a bull for Pás, the former Spetznas lifts an arm up across his chest with fingers straight and pinched together in a knife-hand. Only when he draws the distance to a close does he suddenly whip his arm out and drive that knife-hand for the girl's neck before he whips his arm back and crooks it, to draw it forward again and elbow her in the face. At the same time a leg lifts up and, with a forceful shove, drives his boot's heel into the dead center of Pás' midriff, to send the girl flying back from sheer force.
COMBATSYS: Grigori successfully hits Pas with Cimejes.
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Pas 0/-------/---====|===----\-------\0 Grigori
That last aerial kick takes the last out of her, its speed and extreme acrobatics not even allowing her a way to step out of it. Her feet thrust forward, chi blasts out hotly, and then Pás just falls and lands on her ass, hitting the floor heavily and breathing raggedly. Her broken grin pops back up, and flopping backward, sprawling momentarily where she lay, the young girl allows herself a huffed laugh. That was too much fun.
She looks back up the instant Grigori recovers and turns on her, her face a little coloured by both exertion and her undying puppy love, beaming a little shyly at him as she lifts and waves one nimble hand. Kiska, Kiska, he tells her so very knowingly, and she just grins mindlessly in response. Looks like she got his attention.
And, dear sweet Cristo in Heaven above, was it ever worth it.
Blushing again at the piercing way his eyes watch her, crawling backward against the ground as he moves forward, Pás isn't quite prepared to see Grigori suddenly charge at her, his body equpped with a speed that shouldn't be possible of a frame like his. Her eyes widen. And straightening her back, the Brazilian determines it's a good time to move. She flips back up to her feet, immediately trying to sway under the first swipe of his hand, but this time he's got the speed and the larger reach. One after the other, his attacks hit seamlessly, her throat struck and her face elbowed with such force that it snaps her head violently to one side. Blood spraying from her mouth, her stance weakening, Pás doesn't even have a chance against the solid impact of his foot against her abdomen, the power of the blow flinging her backwards.
She takes out a table in her trajectory, the furniture breaking and splintering around her heaped, strewn limbs. "Ô meu Deus," she strangles out in a gravelly voice, coughing up blood, lifting one hand to rub tenderly at her head. After a moment, she stumbles back up to her feet, teetering, blinking many times before her dark eyes turn on Grigori. Seeming to remember him standing there, Pás blushes anew. That hurt so much. Did he do that just for her?!
He did. Pás fierce, lopsided smile returns. This is so romantic.
And reenergized by true love, doing her best to prove this mysterious man that she's far from finished, Pás only flares Grigori a brief, jagged grin before she snaps forward, racing towards him. Her running step pounds forward, but at the last moment, she deviates, suddenly leaping and taking a step up onto the arm of a couch, then to a table, racing along the tops of them in her journey. Her climb and her last frenetic jump are the boost she needs to do the impossible; Pás tries to meet Grigori at his impossible height, reaching to grab him at the collar, step a propping foot up on his hip, and try to violently smash her head against his.
COMBATSYS: Grigori fails to interrupt Zidane's Revenge from Pas with Andromalius.
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Pas 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Grigori
She's laughing? She's...
LAUGHING?
An incredulous expression haunts the man's sharp face, blue eyes fixed on the dark-skinned Brazilian as she just waves at him. This girl is...almost insane as himself. It's disarming and disturbing. Most women don't act like this. But then, this is Southtown, and he has yet to really meet a 'normal' woman. And hey, if she's laughing, it means he's not hitting her hard enough.
So he charges, swinging his arm and elbowing the girl before he kicks her in the gut, casting the Brazilian girl backwards. Her flight is loud, as a table breaks as her weight lands upon it. The sight earns the girl a hearty laugh, broad shoulders rolling in amusement before his hands simply find refuge in the pockets of his jeans.
"I told you, Kiska. When I am mad, things break. You are a pretty thing, and it is a pity. You really want to breaks that badly?" Pausing, the man bows his head, shaking it solemnly from side to side as he softly tsks. "Is pity, indeed. Would be more fun breaking you in be--"
Be it love or what the hell ever, Pás is suddenly off the debris of the table she crushed and running right for him. The man's brows lift, pale eyes widening before he snarls, his broad chest puffing up as the Brazilian suddenly LEAPS off the floor, her pursuit for the Russian taken to furniture. It's difficult for him to follow, but he tries to persevere; lifting his hands, he clasps them together and swings them high above...
But it's too late. Snared by the leggy Brazilian girl, Pás' forehead SLAMS into Grigori's face, sending the man stumbling and staggering back with a dazed and mildly disoriented look on his sharp features. He spends a moment, a large hand pressed to his bleeding nose as he mutters a dark curse of, "Chërtov, damnable woman."
Slowly those pale eyes drift up, fixed on the girl with an angry glare.
Possibly for the best he never finished that sentence. Possibly for the even better that Pás was too busy trying to add to Grigori's prefrontal impairment to really hear him.
If she did, she would have never stopped blushing.
But falling free from her last successful hit, the Brazilian girl releases Mount Yakushevic and lands back to the ground, standing straight, rubbing residual blood off her own face before she stamps both hands proudly on her hips. And looking up, way way way up, the girl keeps up with her eager grinning. Grigori's returned glare falls on blind eyes. He's so beautiful. He's so amazing. And he's looking at her too. Right at her. Is he thinking about how great a fighter she is, how hard she can hit, and how badly he wants to marry her?!
And he said she was pretty.
"I hit you again, you tell me your name, yea? That is the good deal?!" Pás asks excitedly, chomping down on her bottom lip in an impish way, her bruised body already recoiling for its promised strike. With another a sharp laugh, she lunges at Grigori, pushing herself into a crazed handspring and balancing her weight off one arm, both legs shooting forward to try to catch the Russian straight in the stomach.
COMBATSYS: Grigori counters Strong Kick from Pas with Ronove.
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Pas 0/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Grigori
This isn't the first time his nose has been busted, and likely, it will not be the last. But no matter how many times it happens, the Russian still finds himself angered by the gesture on behalf of his opponents. In his ears he can hear the deafening throb of his heart, his thoughts thoroughly distracted by keeping himself in check. As callous a man he is, he doesn't want to truly rip her apart.
...right?
Shaking his head, the man's large hand slides down his face before he jerks his hand sharply to the side, flinging the blood soaking his hand to the polished floor at his feet. In the distance, the owner grabs his head again and shakes it fiercely, eyes pinched shut in frustration before he calls a waiter over, asking the kid to 'get the mop ready.' It's going to be a messy night.
"Kiska, what is wrong with you?" he asks, after Pás has long since unwound herself off his bulky frame. Peering down at the dark-skinned girl beaming back up at him, his expression is a mixture of irritation and bemusement as bloodied nostrils flare. He isn't thinking about greatness or proposals. He's thinking of the best way to put her out of her misery and save her the embarrassment.
"...wait, what?" His reply is less than coherent, as she offers him a proposal. If she hits him, the Russian will have to fork over his name? "No, is not good deal," the man growls in response, her excited demeanor only serving to disarm him further. Christ, he wonders. Did he knock her fear instincts out with the knife-hand to her neck? She's so small and half his size, and she's giggling like an idiot?
Is she related to that insane Frenchwoman?
But there is precious-little time to ponder. Her body flexes and twists, her entire figure lunging at him feet-first, her feet aimed for his stomach. Smirking sharply, the former Spetznas slides a foot back, bracing his bulky frame for imminent impact. But just as both legs close in for his stomach--
The man intercepts the girl's strike, wedging a meaty arm between both legs. Rather brazenly his arm continues upwards, his beefy hand actually making purchase on Pás' rump and clasping down firmly. A glance would reveal the man's pale eyes are wider than ever, his lips pulled back in a smile that is some odd mix of perversion and morbid glee.
Lifting her high, the man twists her midair in his grasp, before he brings her down swiftly as he kneels deeply, one leg crooked. Why? To slam her back across it, of course. But before he throws her off his knee, the man turns her prone body and...well, smacks her hard across the rear.
"Bad kiska. Bad! So sorry. No name for you, gah ha ha ha!"
THEN she's hurled off of his knee, to land on the floor in a heap as the Russian cackles.
Pás has had many a kick stopped, but never like this. And probably for the best, since she's pretty sure this just took a few years off her life.
Even while supporting herself in a one-armed handstand, her confused face upside-down, the Brazilian has the sense and the time to make the strangest face as the Russian slips his arm in between her legs. What is he--
Her eyes bug out. Her jaw drops. Grigori honks her ass, and Pás squeaks in response.
Too busy trying not to have a heart attack on the spot, she doesn't even notice him thrust her down onto his knee until it's too late. It drives straight into her solar plexus, winding the girl painfully. She crumbles, coughing hoarsely, and really, really needing that painful breath that's HUFFED out in surprise when he gives her a deserving spank.
Pás tumbles down to the ground, smacking her head in the process, strewn-limbed as she stares dazedly up, way up at Grigori. She just gapes at him. "I-- y-you-- aiiii--"
She blushes. Deeply.
And she attacks while he's still caught kneeling. Planting her weight on both hands, her two legs thrust out, trying to catch the man by the neck between her hooking ankles. If she manages to snare him, her skin begins to heat to a painful intensity. Chi explodes.
COMBATSYS: Pas successfully hits Grigori with Sanduich de Calabresa.
- Power hit! -
Still laughing even as the Brazilian lay flat on her back, Grigori seems thoroughly amused at her perceived plight. Surely he has shown her in the rudest and most demeaning way possible that she is inferior to him. He is stronger than this crazy girl! And he'll show her again if he has to.
"Kiska," the man replies, despite her incoherent yammering.
"I can go all the night. You stop pressing me, da? I woulds possibly feel bad if I hurt Kiska."
Would he really? ...naaaah.
Another deep, rumbling laugh escapes the man, shoulders shuddering as he relaxes. Again his hands seek out his jeans' pockets, a lazy posture employed as he begins to rise from a crouch by Pás' prone form. That's when something odd happens. That's when she keeps MOVING.
Caught off guard, the girl's legs shoot out, catching his throat and earning her an odd sound from his thick throat. Before he can lift his meaty hands up to peel her ankles away, there's a buildup of that energy he SO despises before it simply erupts, sending the man tumbling back a few turns, head over ass. When he stops, he lay on his back.
For a long moment, Grigori considers his situation as his throat burns intensely. Twice now have younger women in this town gotten the better of him. Twice now has he been overpowered by WOMEN. Scrawny little women, who look like they'd break in half. Mulling privately, his anger builds, the man's expression darkening. But then...he laughs.
"Ohhhh, Kiska. That was asking for it," he warns, pulling himself to his feet and giving his pants an idle dusting. Slowly his gaze lifts, his eyes searching across the floor before pale blues lock onto the Brazilian girl's eyes. And when he locks eyes with the girl...his smile grows into something frighteningly creepy, dry lips pulling back over his pearly whites.
"Let me show you 'it?'"
Breaking off into a shockingly swift sprint that utterly belies his frame, the Russian lashes out as he draws near, to grab the girl by her right arm, locking it in his steely grasp...
COMBATSYS: Pas counters Belial from Grigori with Catherine Wheel.
In the wake of her explosive chi, her feet unhook off his throat and her long legs draw back, the curvy Brazilian girl immediately flipping back up to her feet. She stands as tall as her height will allow -- which is negligable in the towering shadow of Grigori Yakushevic -- and straightens, one hand dusting off her pants and straightening her stringy halter top. Her actions are a little hurried. A little brisk.
She wants to look good for this mysterious Russian. At all costs.
Her fussing hand finally settling to the curve of her hip, Pás looks up, meeting Grigori's darkening expression with an obliviously happy one of her own, beaming along with a sort of reverent adoration that couldn't be punctured by submachinegun fire. The Grigori she sees is surrounded by divine light and an angelic chorus, smiling back at her as he submits himself to one knee to beg her hand in marriage.
She can't help it. She's a teenage girl.
In reality, the true Grigori is fixing her with a much more venomous expression, letting out a kind of laugh that should salve nothing. Unfortunately, Pás doesn't seem to notice. She just keeps on smiling expectantly, gone back to biting her bottom lip in her habitual way. Then he asks to show her it. She blushes.
And he moves. Quick. And she, after only a split second of thought, of decision, of execution, does just the same. Pás bursts forward an instant after Grigori does, her sharp eyes reading his body language, and exhausting her infinite patience to wait for the strike. He goes for her arm. It's just waiting for him... but then it's hot, the limb twisting sharply, moving suddenly, escaping his hand and... bringing her own around to catch HIM.
"Shiu, me first!" And, trying to grasp down on Grigori's arm, Pás jumps it like a vaulting horse, bringing in one leg to try to plant her knee straight into the man's jaw. She lets herself fall off her aerial jump, and catching herself by the hands, suddenly throws her body in a wild, spinning breakdance, chi suddenly flinting sparks off the bottoms of her feet as her legs whirl in to try to catch the larger man in a series of whipping kicks.
There is something very, very wrong with Pás.
But it's the last thing on Grigori's mind, as he eyes the girl before him. On his sharp face his expression is dark, pale eyes hinting at the promise of a world of pain. Slowly he bares his teeth to her like some cruel, sadistic animal, long digits curling and unfurling at his hips while she dusts herself off and imagines dirty, horrible thoughts for she and the Russian.
Pshaw, marriage. As if he would ever settle down??
Her smiles go unnoticed, her habitual lip-gnawing unobserved as the easy-to-anger former Spetznas sizes her up. That smile, he privately decides, will be wiped off her face. He swears this to himself, before he suddenly charges forward like a wall of muscle and pain. A foot away, he snaps his arm out like a serpent with every intention of drawing her into his grasp.
But again, Pás turns the tables.
His calloused palms grasp nothing, as Pás whips her arm out of the way and suddenly grabs him. Held, he shoots the girl a cold glare, eyes widening before they sharply narrow, lips pulling back once again. 'Me first!' she cries.
"--FUCK THAT!" the man barks in response. Whatever was to follow is cut off as Pás' knee RAMS into his jaw, his tongue barely spared severance by way of his teeth. Pale eyes pinch fiercely shut. The goddamned pain...
Well, it's nothing compared to her fiery breakdance, chi spilling from her feet as she whips him about. It's hot, it's obnoxious and damn if he doesn't want to donkey punch her in the midst of it all. But he can't-- Pás is just too damn deft for him.
When all is said and done, the man hits the bar floor with a loud, table-jarring THUD. Blue eyes stare emptily at the ceiling, jaw tense. Not again, he grouses in his mind. Not this shit AGAIN.
Hands slap against the floor, eyes wide as saucers as he pulls himself to his feet. Running off adrenaline and anger, the Russian stumbles forward, a hand clenched at his side as he closes in. And should he near, a fist will swing heavily, aimed for the girl's sternum...
COMBATSYS: Grigori successfully hits Pas with Sitri.
[ \\\\\\\\ <
Pas 0/-------/---====|
With a horrible CRACK, Grigori's fist makes purchase. His lips twitch, a savage smile edging fiercely over his lips in response. If he's going to go out, it's going to be as painful for this girl as possible.
After the stunning blow to her sternum, Grigori wastes no time. Lashing out, the Russian snares her by her arm and YANKS, to send her face slamming with awful force into his broad shoulder with a cold laugh before he releases. His arm immediately snakes up, wrapping horribly tight around Pás' neck. Slowly but surely he begins to tense his muscle, pinching her there without mercy. Will he strangle her to death..?
Before it can possibly get any worse, the man twists and jumps, dragging Pás up with him...before he falls back-first into the floor, slamming her upper back and the back of her skull forcefully into the hard floor of the bar.
But he's utterly spent. Releasing her thereafter, the former Spetznas rolls aside, breathing heavily as he struggles to get to his feet--to no avail. Flat on his back and the entirety of the bar pressed back-first into the walls for fear of their safety, Grigori's pale eyes just stare at the ceiling, a crooked smirk on his lips as he gasps for breath.
An odd silence lingers over the bar, only broken when the man turns his head to the side.
"Kiska, I has not been ridden like that in long time," he speaks, pale eyes eyeing the girl with a half-lidded gaze. "I do not like making it habit of being dominated by girls--it is awful." Gritting his teeth, the man rolls aside and pushes up, exhale a loud, ragged sigh before he stumbles back a few steps, his back pressing flush against the bar.
"Since you beat me, I will give kiska honor of giving me her name. If you want my name, you will have to find me again and beat me. Gah ha ha ha ha!" The laughter suddenly ceases, his expression serious and stern, as an odd, rather awkward silence falls over him.
"For now, though, I will be going. I have work to do."
Pushing off the bar, the imposing Russian lumbers gingerly toward the door, a hand rubbing gingerly at his throat, where her chi had scorched him, muttering heatedly under his breath in Russian.
Women, pfah.
Log created on 19:06:02 03/21/2008 by Grigori, and last modified on 15:01:17 03/29/2008.