It's the series that won't die.
May. 1st, 2006 05:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chibi_trillianHappy Beltane, yo. Go forth. Have sex (or write about it). Celebrate the rebirth of spring.
Alice Cooper still writes the love songs what makes the ZoSan happen. I'm just a loser who scribbles about them.
ETA: Woke up, had fic beta-ed, realized fic was crap, revised it.
Title: Hell Is Living Without You
Series: One Piece.
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Sequel to Poison and Love Should Never Feel Like This. Zoro's still got a problem with Sanji. Now it's just a bit different. Crossposted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
onepieceyaoi.
The problem had gotten worse.
In Alabasta, in Crocodile’s casino, Zoro had had his weakness ground into his face as stared at the seastone-and-steel bars of their prison. They had mocked him, mocked his inferiority and inability. If Zoro had been stronger, he could have liberated his friends and himself. There wouldn’t have been that anxious time where they stared at the rising water and wondered if all their dreams were going to end, wondered if Sanji was dead and if they were soon to follow.
And then Mr. Prince had saved them. Coming in like a force of nature, radiating confidence and controlled anger and, above all else, strength. For one shining moment, he’d been someone else, someone new, someone potent and deadly and beautiful.
And then Sanji had gone back to his normal self, gushing at Nami like a moron. But Mr. Prince had been there, and Zoro had seen him. Almost a desert mirage, but desert mirages don’t rescue their comrades from certain death.
Flickers of Mr. Prince haunted him all through the mess in Alabasta, even after he’d begun to grasp the reality of the blade that cuts nothing, even after he’d proven to himself that he was getting stronger, more focused, closer to Mihawk and his final rematch.
And afterwards, Zoro found himself craving the sight of him again. Above and beyond his normal ruthlessly-crushed desire for the cook, he wanted Mr. Prince. His equal. His match.
His mate.
The man he sought was buried inside the Love Cook, a sharp blade hidden in an ornamental scabbard, and that knowledge was a slow, twisting burn in his mind. He fought and sparred more and more with Sanji, just to see flashes of Mr. Prince under the cook’s skin and realize that that offer of surrender still stood, but now it was mutual, as any meeting of evenly-matched warriors should be. Their combat was laced with so much heat and hunger and pain that Zoro almost longed for the clean anger he’d once aimed at the chef for daring to be so attractive when Zoro couldn’t afford to give in to his temptation.
The situation was untenable. Actually, it was past untenable. It was hellish. His mind was a muddle, a morass of warring emotions in one who sought to empty himself of most of them. The cook’s poison had finally reached his heart, it seemed.
If this continued, Zoro feared his swordsmanship would suffer. If his swordsmanship suffered, his nakama might do the same, and it would be no one’s fault but his own.
And yet…some part of him whispered that he’d wasted enough time. That the cook had always been this strong and he’d simply been too blind, too arrogant to see. That those close to him were his critical blind spot, and he sought to defend them even when they didn’t need it, even when it actively hampered their personal growth. That the shell of blood and steel he wove around those who he valued was as much prison as protection.
Most fatally, it murmured that the burden of the tight, brutally restrained lust in his belly would hamper his quest infinitely more than the consequences of giving in to it.
Zoro was a man of action above all else. He was strong. He was powerful. He was decisive. His decisions did not always prove to be correct, but they were made and they were his. And Zoro couldn’t stand this limbo anymore. After all, he would follow Luffy to the gates of Hell, but he wasn’t interested in going there on his own.
And that was why, when the chef gave him that dark, flirtatious look over a long, upraised leg, when the air around them was especially thick with sex and anger and something else, he grabbed the fucker by the tie and dragged him forward. Close enough to smell Sanji’s cigarettes. Close enough that Sanji’s leg was tight and hard against Zoro’s stomach, ready to kick him halfway across the ship. Close enough Zoro’s oldest and most beloved sword was brushing the collar of Sanji’s shirt. Balanced on the edge, both of them. Razor-sharp and ready to bleed.
A pause. One breath. Two. Then his blade kissed Sanji’s neck at the same time his lips met the cook’s mouth.
Sanji bit down hard, drawing blood. Sanji’s blood on Zoro’s sword, Zoro’s blood in Sanji’s mouth.
Blood and steel on the streets of Alubarna, blood and steel over and over in Zoro’s hands, blood and steel under Sanji’s skin and running molten in his eyes. Tasting it, feeling it, bound by it.
As equals.
Alice Cooper still writes the love songs what makes the ZoSan happen. I'm just a loser who scribbles about them.
ETA: Woke up, had fic beta-ed, realized fic was crap, revised it.
Title: Hell Is Living Without You
Series: One Piece.
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Sequel to Poison and Love Should Never Feel Like This. Zoro's still got a problem with Sanji. Now it's just a bit different. Crossposted to
onepieceyaoi.The problem had gotten worse.
In Alabasta, in Crocodile’s casino, Zoro had had his weakness ground into his face as stared at the seastone-and-steel bars of their prison. They had mocked him, mocked his inferiority and inability. If Zoro had been stronger, he could have liberated his friends and himself. There wouldn’t have been that anxious time where they stared at the rising water and wondered if all their dreams were going to end, wondered if Sanji was dead and if they were soon to follow.
And then Mr. Prince had saved them. Coming in like a force of nature, radiating confidence and controlled anger and, above all else, strength. For one shining moment, he’d been someone else, someone new, someone potent and deadly and beautiful.
And then Sanji had gone back to his normal self, gushing at Nami like a moron. But Mr. Prince had been there, and Zoro had seen him. Almost a desert mirage, but desert mirages don’t rescue their comrades from certain death.
Flickers of Mr. Prince haunted him all through the mess in Alabasta, even after he’d begun to grasp the reality of the blade that cuts nothing, even after he’d proven to himself that he was getting stronger, more focused, closer to Mihawk and his final rematch.
And afterwards, Zoro found himself craving the sight of him again. Above and beyond his normal ruthlessly-crushed desire for the cook, he wanted Mr. Prince. His equal. His match.
His mate.
The man he sought was buried inside the Love Cook, a sharp blade hidden in an ornamental scabbard, and that knowledge was a slow, twisting burn in his mind. He fought and sparred more and more with Sanji, just to see flashes of Mr. Prince under the cook’s skin and realize that that offer of surrender still stood, but now it was mutual, as any meeting of evenly-matched warriors should be. Their combat was laced with so much heat and hunger and pain that Zoro almost longed for the clean anger he’d once aimed at the chef for daring to be so attractive when Zoro couldn’t afford to give in to his temptation.
The situation was untenable. Actually, it was past untenable. It was hellish. His mind was a muddle, a morass of warring emotions in one who sought to empty himself of most of them. The cook’s poison had finally reached his heart, it seemed.
If this continued, Zoro feared his swordsmanship would suffer. If his swordsmanship suffered, his nakama might do the same, and it would be no one’s fault but his own.
And yet…some part of him whispered that he’d wasted enough time. That the cook had always been this strong and he’d simply been too blind, too arrogant to see. That those close to him were his critical blind spot, and he sought to defend them even when they didn’t need it, even when it actively hampered their personal growth. That the shell of blood and steel he wove around those who he valued was as much prison as protection.
Most fatally, it murmured that the burden of the tight, brutally restrained lust in his belly would hamper his quest infinitely more than the consequences of giving in to it.
Zoro was a man of action above all else. He was strong. He was powerful. He was decisive. His decisions did not always prove to be correct, but they were made and they were his. And Zoro couldn’t stand this limbo anymore. After all, he would follow Luffy to the gates of Hell, but he wasn’t interested in going there on his own.
And that was why, when the chef gave him that dark, flirtatious look over a long, upraised leg, when the air around them was especially thick with sex and anger and something else, he grabbed the fucker by the tie and dragged him forward. Close enough to smell Sanji’s cigarettes. Close enough that Sanji’s leg was tight and hard against Zoro’s stomach, ready to kick him halfway across the ship. Close enough Zoro’s oldest and most beloved sword was brushing the collar of Sanji’s shirt. Balanced on the edge, both of them. Razor-sharp and ready to bleed.
A pause. One breath. Two. Then his blade kissed Sanji’s neck at the same time his lips met the cook’s mouth.
Sanji bit down hard, drawing blood. Sanji’s blood on Zoro’s sword, Zoro’s blood in Sanji’s mouth.
Blood and steel on the streets of Alubarna, blood and steel over and over in Zoro’s hands, blood and steel under Sanji’s skin and running molten in his eyes. Tasting it, feeling it, bound by it.
As equals.
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Date: 2006-05-01 08:29 pm (UTC)