Revolving Blades [August 1st] [Squalo] [Reborn!]
Title :: Revolving Blades
Prompt :: August 1st, “come up through the summer rain” [31_days]
Characters :: Squalo
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 225
Summary :: He keeps careful lists, of technique after technique after technique.
He keeps careful lists, of technique after technique after technique.
He's never been anything if not dedicated, after all, and determined as hell to be the best and win.
And besides, being conventional is for bitches. (And never mind what the fuckin' knife brat says about him being the boss's bitch, or what the boss himself says about him being a bitch in general, or-)
It's all best in the summer, he thinks, where there is nothing but heat and raw and wind tasting like a promise of the warmest rain, where the sun glints off his hand and it is a thing far too glorious to ever be ignored.
Where he can roll down the windows of the boss's car, sticking his head outside and letting his hair flag like their own custom banner as it dries; where he can return home and finish its drying with the revolving blades of a multitude of fans.
(And in some ways, he considers the caretaking of his hair an even greater duty than his title of Sword Emperor - to attain the latter he was willing to sacrifice his own hand, but he'll fuckin' kill anyone who dares even suggest he chop off so much as a single stunning strand.)
Prompt :: August 1st, “come up through the summer rain” [31_days]
Characters :: Squalo
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 225
Summary :: He keeps careful lists, of technique after technique after technique.
He keeps careful lists, of technique after technique after technique.
He's never been anything if not dedicated, after all, and determined as hell to be the best and win.
And besides, being conventional is for bitches. (And never mind what the fuckin' knife brat says about him being the boss's bitch, or what the boss himself says about him being a bitch in general, or-)
It's all best in the summer, he thinks, where there is nothing but heat and raw and wind tasting like a promise of the warmest rain, where the sun glints off his hand and it is a thing far too glorious to ever be ignored.
Where he can roll down the windows of the boss's car, sticking his head outside and letting his hair flag like their own custom banner as it dries; where he can return home and finish its drying with the revolving blades of a multitude of fans.
(And in some ways, he considers the caretaking of his hair an even greater duty than his title of Sword Emperor - to attain the latter he was willing to sacrifice his own hand, but he'll fuckin' kill anyone who dares even suggest he chop off so much as a single stunning strand.)