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[...wing...]
I got sorted into Slytherin by a landslide. I've always thought of myself as a hardcore Ravenclaw, so the comments that said I give off such a Slytherin vibe really amused me. I reckon it's the stuff I said about Hermione and the emphasis on diplomacy. Or the sass. It seems like if you show the slightest sign of sass at all, they peg you for a Slytherin.
Anyway, I wrote this a while ago. I thought I'd continue it some time, throw in an orgy, and up the rating to NC17, but so far it has been adamant about remaining a drabble.
Flight
Kill Bill. O-Ren/The Bride. PG.
A duel during Ye Goode Olde Days before they all wanted to shuffle B off the mortal coil.
The sword wings through the air. Not wing like how birds fly. It's the sound your sword makes when it slices the air.
Slice.
Wing.
It is a metallic sound, clean and sharp in your ears as you match O-Ren's circling step for step, slow motion forward.
Proper attire for these practice sessions include a black jumpsuit, hair tied back (like yours) or kept short (like hers). These are compulsory. These are optional: a smile, blood, and victory.
Wing.
is the beginning. The end goes like this:
A slice that tears your sleeve in two and cuts your skin, a blow that tastes the blood in your mouth, and a roundhouse kick that sends you sprawling on the mat. A split second later there is a samurai sword sinking itself into the ground a centimeter away from your jugular. O-Ren straddles your stomach, knees pressed to the ground, holding you firmly. Her hands are on the hilt of the sword as she leans over you, close so close. Skin on (cloth on cloth on) skin. There is a look in her eyes. There is a nuance in the parting of her lips.
O-Ren says, "Checkmate."
"Wrong game," you reply.
"It's all the same game."
And she smiles.
[end.]
Anyway, I wrote this a while ago. I thought I'd continue it some time, throw in an orgy, and up the rating to NC17, but so far it has been adamant about remaining a drabble.
Flight
Kill Bill. O-Ren/The Bride. PG.
A duel during Ye Goode Olde Days before they all wanted to shuffle B off the mortal coil.
The sword wings through the air. Not wing like how birds fly. It's the sound your sword makes when it slices the air.
Slice.
Wing.
It is a metallic sound, clean and sharp in your ears as you match O-Ren's circling step for step, slow motion forward.
Proper attire for these practice sessions include a black jumpsuit, hair tied back (like yours) or kept short (like hers). These are compulsory. These are optional: a smile, blood, and victory.
Wing.
is the beginning. The end goes like this:
A slice that tears your sleeve in two and cuts your skin, a blow that tastes the blood in your mouth, and a roundhouse kick that sends you sprawling on the mat. A split second later there is a samurai sword sinking itself into the ground a centimeter away from your jugular. O-Ren straddles your stomach, knees pressed to the ground, holding you firmly. Her hands are on the hilt of the sword as she leans over you, close so close. Skin on (cloth on cloth on) skin. There is a look in her eyes. There is a nuance in the parting of her lips.
O-Ren says, "Checkmate."
"Wrong game," you reply.
"It's all the same game."
And she smiles.
[end.]