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chibi_trillianTitle: Fouetté
Series: One Piece
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 1,195.
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scribe_protra bought 1000 words of my writings for the Live Long 'n' Marry charity auction. She requested Crocodile/Bon Clay with a prompt of "sneakiness." There is sneakery and lechery afoot, but largely there is topping from the bottom, in a weird, backhanded way.
Notes: Slightly late, but I hope the extra words make up for it. My beta has been et alive by NaNoWriMo, so if you spot typos, please for to be pointing them out.
Marine prisons were many things. Stuffy. Poorly decorated. Badly staffed. Generally uncomfortable. But above all else, they were boring. And Bon Clay had never dealt with boredom well. Officially, the only thing to do here at night was sleep, and that was simply déclassé.
Mr. 3 started snoring in the bunk overhead, and Bon Clay added “annoyingly noisy” to his mental list. Mr. 3 did nothing to alleviate his boredom and a great deal to make it more unbearable. Bon Clay idly contemplated doing something to get himself put in Solitary, where at least he would have a private room as befitted his status as a prima donna, but Solitary would put a stop to the one thing that did make his life fun.
Bon Clay tuned out Mr. 3’s snores and listened to the other sounds of the jail, old infiltrator skills coming to the fore—just like Okama Kenpo, it would never do if he got out of practice. The guards were chatting and smoking down near the end of the cell block, laughing over something instead of patrolling. Black Cage Hina would have had their hides were she their commanding officer. But she wasn’t. And this was the softest of the maximum security cell blocks, reserved for model prisoners, so the guards rarely had work to do. Bon Clay supposed that if he had been so tacky as to sign up with the Marines, and had furthermore been so unfortunate as to wind up working as a guard in this particular prison, he might possibly have spent his nights calling Den Den sex lines as well.
As someone who had escaped from prison once already, Bon Clay had had to work hard to make his way down here. They made him continue wearing those tasteless seastone cuffs, but otherwise he no longer had to obey most of the onerous restrictions that had been placed on him in the higher security areas.
Like the one where he wasn’t to touch prison staff at all.
In the moonlight trickling in through the barred window, he carefully dislocated his thumb and pulled the cuff off over his hand, easy as un, deux, trois. Back when he’d been but a cygnet, untrained in the ways of life and love, he’d had a relationship with an older man who’d been into bondage and occasionally forgot to untie him. So he’d used the magnificent flexibility and grace that the gods had seen fit to bless him with and learned how to get himself out of unfortunate situations involving his wrists being secured. He’d sent the old man a lovely fruit basket after his first escape from prison.
Liberated from his unjust durance, he eyed the bars. A moment later, Miss Golden Week squeezed her small body out through the bars, clutching a bundle of fabric purloined from the prison laundry. A moment after that, Petty Officer Scrivener, who was fairly well known for being a little too friendly with the prisoners, walked down the cell block, straightening her uniform as she went.
*****
Zero-chan’s cell was tucked off in a corner on the lower level, dark and quiet as a desert night. A small form squirmed through the bars with a whisper of far-too-loose clothing and then became much larger before moving over to the cot. Zero-chan being as important as he was, he got his own cell. Bon Clay was glad of that; covert missions were always much easier without witnesses around to try and keep quiet.
He was awake, of course—he always was by the time Bon Clay got inside the cell. Zero-chan might be quite content to stay here in prison, but that didn’t mean he was complacent, or that he’d forgotten which of them had once been the pirate and which had once been the pirate hunter. Bon Clay loved that about him—Zero-chan never underestimated him. It was charming, delightfully flattering, and laced these trysts with a touch of danger.
“What took you?” Zero-chan’s voice was as dry as his enemies usually were after he got done with them.
“Stop joking arooooound! You know I can’t slip out until Mr. 3 falls asleep!” Bon Clay hissed as he pirouetted across the cell, shedding bits of uniform as he went.
“Hn.” Zero-chan was smiling, over there in the dark. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but Zero-chan didn’t really have pleasant smiles. He simply had smiles that were less reptilian than others. He reached out, snagged Bon Clay’s wrist with his good hand, yanked him off pointe and onto the cot. “I’m in the mood for something…different tonight.”
Zero-chan was bored indeed. Bon Clay was a little annoyed, but refrained from pouting with an effort of will. Instead he sighed dramatically and whispered, “Who?”
“Strawhat.” It was nearly a curse. Something must have been in the papers today, something big.
It looked like tonight was going to be less fun than he thought it would be. Bon Clay was uncomfortable with the thought of letting Crocodile ravage Luffy-chan, even in effigy. The assorted men and women he’d become for Zero-chan’s pleasure over the months had been one thing. Luffy and his crew were friends. “Come ooooon, why him? He’s not interesting. We can have more fun than that.” He transformed, piecing together the bodies of several women to turn into something with nearly unreal curves and features. Miss All Sunday had provided the breasts, and he thanked her for that, wherever she was.
It should have distracted him. It usually did, when he got like this. But not tonight. Crocodile slammed him to the cot, making a dangerous amount of noise, and snarled “Strawhat. Now.” The hook was cold and sharp against his skin.
He could have transformed into someone small and lithe and squirmed away and never returned. He could have turned back into himself and kneed Crocodile so hard that he’d be good for nothing for a month. He could have, and Crocodile knew it.
But they both knew that Bon Clay’s weakness had always been that he got too attached to people, that he was loyal to a fault. His encounter with the Strawhat crew had only made him strive harder to protect those who were near to him. It was why he’d wound up in prison twice and why he stayed here when he could leave any time he wanted to. If he left, it would be with Zero-chan and Das Bones and even that prat Mr. 3. Like the noble swan to its mate, he clove to people for life.
Torn between two loyalties, the only thing he could do was glare up at Crocodile, not fighting, but not complying either. The irritated pout he’d suppressed earlier was back with a vengeance, and the scarred face above him looked twisted and ugly in the faint moonlight. The silence stretched like a ballet dancer’s snagged tutu, getting tighter and tighter until it finally tore with Zero-chan’s choked bark of “Fine.”
The hand that had been crushingly tight on his arm ran down the hips he’d appropriated from Paula-chan, and Bon Clay silently chalked up another victory for the Okama Way.
Series: One Piece
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13.
Word Count: 1,195.
Summary:
scribe_protra bought 1000 words of my writings for the Live Long 'n' Marry charity auction. She requested Crocodile/Bon Clay with a prompt of "sneakiness." There is sneakery and lechery afoot, but largely there is topping from the bottom, in a weird, backhanded way.Notes: Slightly late, but I hope the extra words make up for it. My beta has been et alive by NaNoWriMo, so if you spot typos, please for to be pointing them out.
Marine prisons were many things. Stuffy. Poorly decorated. Badly staffed. Generally uncomfortable. But above all else, they were boring. And Bon Clay had never dealt with boredom well. Officially, the only thing to do here at night was sleep, and that was simply déclassé.
Mr. 3 started snoring in the bunk overhead, and Bon Clay added “annoyingly noisy” to his mental list. Mr. 3 did nothing to alleviate his boredom and a great deal to make it more unbearable. Bon Clay idly contemplated doing something to get himself put in Solitary, where at least he would have a private room as befitted his status as a prima donna, but Solitary would put a stop to the one thing that did make his life fun.
Bon Clay tuned out Mr. 3’s snores and listened to the other sounds of the jail, old infiltrator skills coming to the fore—just like Okama Kenpo, it would never do if he got out of practice. The guards were chatting and smoking down near the end of the cell block, laughing over something instead of patrolling. Black Cage Hina would have had their hides were she their commanding officer. But she wasn’t. And this was the softest of the maximum security cell blocks, reserved for model prisoners, so the guards rarely had work to do. Bon Clay supposed that if he had been so tacky as to sign up with the Marines, and had furthermore been so unfortunate as to wind up working as a guard in this particular prison, he might possibly have spent his nights calling Den Den sex lines as well.
As someone who had escaped from prison once already, Bon Clay had had to work hard to make his way down here. They made him continue wearing those tasteless seastone cuffs, but otherwise he no longer had to obey most of the onerous restrictions that had been placed on him in the higher security areas.
Like the one where he wasn’t to touch prison staff at all.
In the moonlight trickling in through the barred window, he carefully dislocated his thumb and pulled the cuff off over his hand, easy as un, deux, trois. Back when he’d been but a cygnet, untrained in the ways of life and love, he’d had a relationship with an older man who’d been into bondage and occasionally forgot to untie him. So he’d used the magnificent flexibility and grace that the gods had seen fit to bless him with and learned how to get himself out of unfortunate situations involving his wrists being secured. He’d sent the old man a lovely fruit basket after his first escape from prison.
Liberated from his unjust durance, he eyed the bars. A moment later, Miss Golden Week squeezed her small body out through the bars, clutching a bundle of fabric purloined from the prison laundry. A moment after that, Petty Officer Scrivener, who was fairly well known for being a little too friendly with the prisoners, walked down the cell block, straightening her uniform as she went.
*****
Zero-chan’s cell was tucked off in a corner on the lower level, dark and quiet as a desert night. A small form squirmed through the bars with a whisper of far-too-loose clothing and then became much larger before moving over to the cot. Zero-chan being as important as he was, he got his own cell. Bon Clay was glad of that; covert missions were always much easier without witnesses around to try and keep quiet.
He was awake, of course—he always was by the time Bon Clay got inside the cell. Zero-chan might be quite content to stay here in prison, but that didn’t mean he was complacent, or that he’d forgotten which of them had once been the pirate and which had once been the pirate hunter. Bon Clay loved that about him—Zero-chan never underestimated him. It was charming, delightfully flattering, and laced these trysts with a touch of danger.
“What took you?” Zero-chan’s voice was as dry as his enemies usually were after he got done with them.
“Stop joking arooooound! You know I can’t slip out until Mr. 3 falls asleep!” Bon Clay hissed as he pirouetted across the cell, shedding bits of uniform as he went.
“Hn.” Zero-chan was smiling, over there in the dark. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but Zero-chan didn’t really have pleasant smiles. He simply had smiles that were less reptilian than others. He reached out, snagged Bon Clay’s wrist with his good hand, yanked him off pointe and onto the cot. “I’m in the mood for something…different tonight.”
Zero-chan was bored indeed. Bon Clay was a little annoyed, but refrained from pouting with an effort of will. Instead he sighed dramatically and whispered, “Who?”
“Strawhat.” It was nearly a curse. Something must have been in the papers today, something big.
It looked like tonight was going to be less fun than he thought it would be. Bon Clay was uncomfortable with the thought of letting Crocodile ravage Luffy-chan, even in effigy. The assorted men and women he’d become for Zero-chan’s pleasure over the months had been one thing. Luffy and his crew were friends. “Come ooooon, why him? He’s not interesting. We can have more fun than that.” He transformed, piecing together the bodies of several women to turn into something with nearly unreal curves and features. Miss All Sunday had provided the breasts, and he thanked her for that, wherever she was.
It should have distracted him. It usually did, when he got like this. But not tonight. Crocodile slammed him to the cot, making a dangerous amount of noise, and snarled “Strawhat. Now.” The hook was cold and sharp against his skin.
He could have transformed into someone small and lithe and squirmed away and never returned. He could have turned back into himself and kneed Crocodile so hard that he’d be good for nothing for a month. He could have, and Crocodile knew it.
But they both knew that Bon Clay’s weakness had always been that he got too attached to people, that he was loyal to a fault. His encounter with the Strawhat crew had only made him strive harder to protect those who were near to him. It was why he’d wound up in prison twice and why he stayed here when he could leave any time he wanted to. If he left, it would be with Zero-chan and Das Bones and even that prat Mr. 3. Like the noble swan to its mate, he clove to people for life.
Torn between two loyalties, the only thing he could do was glare up at Crocodile, not fighting, but not complying either. The irritated pout he’d suppressed earlier was back with a vengeance, and the scarred face above him looked twisted and ugly in the faint moonlight. The silence stretched like a ballet dancer’s snagged tutu, getting tighter and tighter until it finally tore with Zero-chan’s choked bark of “Fine.”
The hand that had been crushingly tight on his arm ran down the hips he’d appropriated from Paula-chan, and Bon Clay silently chalked up another victory for the Okama Way.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 05:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 08:43 am (UTC)...Yay!
And now for you to wait for the comments with brains.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 12:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-03 02:26 am (UTC)My love for Bon Clay is back with a vengeance. So IC, from respecting Luffy and co, STILL sticking with Crocodile and his imprisoned nakama, to not letting Crocodile get his way in this either :P Life is complicated for the noble swan, but he still sails right on through the turbulent waters- *is shot dhed by the Metaphor Police*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-03 03:46 pm (UTC)If the Metaphor Police are after you, they must have a sniper rifle trained on my head! OH SH- *ded*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-03 04:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-07 06:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-09 06:43 pm (UTC)..Uh, hi there! Your stories are really good and well written and stuff. :D
-tryingnottobeacreepystalkerfangirl-
Um, yeah.. ^-^;
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-09 10:20 pm (UTC)