[it's a testament to Vincent's confidence in himself, if nothing else, that he makes no attempt to dodge the ascending fist. he's more than willing to take the hit in order to maintain his current position and move in for an excellent follow-up; dazing an opponent was a chance that didn't come around very often. a few stars or a bloody nose was more than a fair trade for that.
he's braced for a retaliation from a normal fistfight, but what he gets instead is...some demented variation on the world's oldest barroom party trick. the crunch echoes in the otherwise silent building, the reverberations of the sound seemingly magnifying the utterly stupidity of the moment.
even if his wits were entirely about him rather than number by shock, it would be difficult for Vincent to react quickly. the can had crumpled almost square in the middle of his forehead - exactly where his bizarre headache has been localized the entire time. it practically burns, the pain far more intense than anything he'd have suffered if it had simply collided with his nose.
he reels back a few steps, hissing through clenched teeth. it's only when he finds his vision is still obscured that he realizes the can's never hit the ground, the edge of the pop top catching on one of his eyebrow piercings instead. he growls lowly under his breath as he rips the damn thing off, the sound acquiring a pained edge as the piercing is ripped off along with its uninvited passenger.
fucking fantastic. not only was that going to bleed, but he was going to have to comb the stairs after this whole thing was over to find his piercing again.
the only silver lining is that his ire doesn't allow Kit even a breath of air with which to laugh at his foe. with another growl, this one infinitely more feral, he charges forward in some rage-blinded attempt to make good on his original strategy. there's nothing educated about this attack either, only a body like a battering ram and grasping arms looking to close in around the other teen's neck and squeeze.]
no subject
he's braced for a retaliation from a normal fistfight, but what he gets instead is...some demented variation on the world's oldest barroom party trick. the crunch echoes in the otherwise silent building, the reverberations of the sound seemingly magnifying the utterly stupidity of the moment.
even if his wits were entirely about him rather than number by shock, it would be difficult for Vincent to react quickly. the can had crumpled almost square in the middle of his forehead - exactly where his bizarre headache has been localized the entire time. it practically burns, the pain far more intense than anything he'd have suffered if it had simply collided with his nose.
he reels back a few steps, hissing through clenched teeth. it's only when he finds his vision is still obscured that he realizes the can's never hit the ground, the edge of the pop top catching on one of his eyebrow piercings instead. he growls lowly under his breath as he rips the damn thing off, the sound acquiring a pained edge as the piercing is ripped off along with its uninvited passenger.
fucking fantastic. not only was that going to bleed, but he was going to have to comb the stairs after this whole thing was over to find his piercing again.
the only silver lining is that his ire doesn't allow Kit even a breath of air with which to laugh at his foe. with another growl, this one infinitely more feral, he charges forward in some rage-blinded attempt to make good on his original strategy. there's nothing educated about this attack either, only a body like a battering ram and grasping arms looking to close in around the other teen's neck and squeeze.]