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31_days2006-04-14 11:44 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-14 11:44 pm
[14 April] [James Bond] Crunch
Title: Crunch
Day/Theme: April 14th - Caught in a catch-22
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG-13
The crunch of knuckles against bone, the zinc taste of blood in the mouth. Fingernails scraping skin. Fist to stomach, so yeilding, unless the blow was anticipated. Houdini died because he didn't tighten his belly-muscles fast enough.
Knee to groin, pillow-soft, unsporting, but sometimes necessary - and so very satisfying! The collapse, the keening, the sweet sweet sweet thrill of victory. One last kick, and one more, one more, each answering groan a little softer, tears leaking out of the sides of the eyes. The hands are clenched so tight.
The eyes, the hands. Never his, because in a fight nobody owns anything.
And then you're left with nothing but your aching and your bruises, the dull throb that gets sharper with each heartbeat. Victory doesn't taste so sweet. You spit your own blood into the sink. Maybe a tooth, if you're unlucky. Knock up the emergency dentist that SIS keeps on staff; they're used to this sort of thing. Get yourself reassembled, bandaged up, swallow a few dozen aspirin for your pains. Wash it down with a good measure of vodka. Tomorrow you'll wake up with a bitch of a headache, but it's hardly worth worrying about now.
It's the catch-22 of fighting, really. To win, you have to fight too. Get hurt. Get clawed and bloodied and beaten. It's not pretty, and it's not Hollywood. You punch someone in the face, you're just as likely to end up breaking your hand as his jaw. There's no royal road to winning a fight, unless you cheat, but that usually takes prior planning.
And you're left with nothing but that zinc taste of blood in your mouth, and you're not sure whose blood it is anymore.
Day/Theme: April 14th - Caught in a catch-22
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG-13
The crunch of knuckles against bone, the zinc taste of blood in the mouth. Fingernails scraping skin. Fist to stomach, so yeilding, unless the blow was anticipated. Houdini died because he didn't tighten his belly-muscles fast enough.
Knee to groin, pillow-soft, unsporting, but sometimes necessary - and so very satisfying! The collapse, the keening, the sweet sweet sweet thrill of victory. One last kick, and one more, one more, each answering groan a little softer, tears leaking out of the sides of the eyes. The hands are clenched so tight.
The eyes, the hands. Never his, because in a fight nobody owns anything.
And then you're left with nothing but your aching and your bruises, the dull throb that gets sharper with each heartbeat. Victory doesn't taste so sweet. You spit your own blood into the sink. Maybe a tooth, if you're unlucky. Knock up the emergency dentist that SIS keeps on staff; they're used to this sort of thing. Get yourself reassembled, bandaged up, swallow a few dozen aspirin for your pains. Wash it down with a good measure of vodka. Tomorrow you'll wake up with a bitch of a headache, but it's hardly worth worrying about now.
It's the catch-22 of fighting, really. To win, you have to fight too. Get hurt. Get clawed and bloodied and beaten. It's not pretty, and it's not Hollywood. You punch someone in the face, you're just as likely to end up breaking your hand as his jaw. There's no royal road to winning a fight, unless you cheat, but that usually takes prior planning.
And you're left with nothing but that zinc taste of blood in your mouth, and you're not sure whose blood it is anymore.