I fail at writing on topic.
May. 10th, 2006 10:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chibi_trillianI was trying to write something for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bumpgrrl's list. "Trying" being the operative word. This showed up instead. There's not even any yaoi in this unless you squint and turn your head sideways with your UST goggles on.
Title: Sanguine
Series: One Piece.
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Right after Arlong Park, Sanji and Zoro get marginally better acquainted with each other.
The doctor in Cocoyashi Village had replaced the staples that Zoro had torn out fighting with that octopus fishman, but the insane swordsman had still shredded himself into a few extra weeks of healing up. And his new bandages were big enough and awkward enough that he couldn’t change them very well on his own, despite his protests to the contrary.
Usopp didn’t want to do it. He said that the sight of blood made him faint. When Luffy had pointed out that it hadn’t been a problem when Usopp was on his home island, he declared that it must be the sea air making his soul more sensitive to the pain of others.
Nami-san didn’t want to do it. Her wish was the only explanation that Sanji needed.
And nobody really trusted Luffy to do it without going overboard and turning Zoro into a mummy.
So that left Sanji as the one assigned to prevent Zoro’s guts from falling out all over the deck. The swordsman wasn’t pleased, but Nami-san punching him in the head and telling him to quit whining about stupid things had shut him up fairly quickly. Ah, Nami-san was so forceful when she was angry!
Sanji growled at the sullen swordsman as he unwrapped the bloodstained bandages, trying to defuse some of his own discomfort. He hadn’t gotten a really close look at the wound on Zoro’s chest since it had been inflicted. His cheeks flushed as he remembered his less-than-noble conduct that day. He’d thought the swordsman was going to die for his dream, and he’d told him to give it up.
Cowardly and disrespectful of him, and part of the reason he fought with the swordsman so much—to prove that he was strong enough to match up with a man who had stared Death in the face and told it to go fuck itself.
Death’s reply was written all over Zoro’s chest. The ink was still wet.
“Dumbass, you tore another staple. You rip yourself up much more, and I’m tying you to a chair until this heals. Even you have to run out of blood eventually, and you’re going to do it if you keep reopening this wound.”
Zoro snorted. “Didn’t know you cared.”
Sanji flushed and declined to dignify that comment with an answer. Besides, he had to focus on wiping the disinfectant the old village doctor had given them across the swordsman’s mess of a chest.
It was still a masterpiece of a body, even cut nearly in half as it was. A beautifully made and honed machine, and Zoro had no respect for it. Sanji knew better than to disrespect his own flesh—he’d come too close to losing it. Sanji felt the familiar spark of rage in his chest and grabbed at it. Being pissed at Zoro was better than feeling uncomfortable and inferior.
Sanji worked himself up into a towering temper as he worked his way down the injury, from shoulder to hip. He’d done this before, for smaller wounds, for his own injuries, for those of the other chefs after an ugly fight. The swordsman’s stoic silence seemed like a further insult to the needs of his body, and the thin trickles of blood that sprang up as fast as Sanji wiped them away were like a cry for help.
Bastard. There were men out there who would kill to have his body.
And Sanji knew of one man who deserved Zoro’s leg far more than he did.
“What the hell are you making that face for, shitty chef?”
Sanji’s temper flared, and he grabbed Zoro’s chin with one blood-and-disinfectant smeared hand. “I’m making that face because I’m in the same room as a jackass who doesn’t give a shit about his body except as something to throw in front of a goddamn sword.”
Zoro grabbed Sanji’s shirt with a hand, yanked him up roughly. Zoro’s powerful muscles flexed, and Sanji saw the wound tear open, right in the middle of the man’s chest.
The hand that had been holding Zoro’s chin swiped down and pressed hard against the fresh injury. Pain flickered in Zoro’s eyes, almost hidden, but not quite.
“Stupid sack of shit,” Sanji hissed, holding up his blood-slicked hand. “You can’t be the greatest swordsman in the world if you’re dead.”
Zoro dropped him. Sanji landed heavily on his knees in front of the swordsman, glaring up at him.
Sanji supposed they were even now, as far as stupid, disrespectful conduct went.
There was thick, angry silence as Sanji bandaged the other man’s chest back up. Sanji picked up the soiled bandages, trying to decide which pot to use to boil them clean, as Zoro pulled on his shirt. Sanji was halfway out the storeroom door when Zoro’s voice stopped him.
“Oi…chef.”
Sanji turned. “Yes, asshole?”
“…Thanks.”
Sanji kicked him in the head.
bumpgrrl's list. "Trying" being the operative word. This showed up instead. There's not even any yaoi in this unless you squint and turn your head sideways with your UST goggles on.Title: Sanguine
Series: One Piece.
One Piece: Not mine.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Right after Arlong Park, Sanji and Zoro get marginally better acquainted with each other.
The doctor in Cocoyashi Village had replaced the staples that Zoro had torn out fighting with that octopus fishman, but the insane swordsman had still shredded himself into a few extra weeks of healing up. And his new bandages were big enough and awkward enough that he couldn’t change them very well on his own, despite his protests to the contrary.
Usopp didn’t want to do it. He said that the sight of blood made him faint. When Luffy had pointed out that it hadn’t been a problem when Usopp was on his home island, he declared that it must be the sea air making his soul more sensitive to the pain of others.
Nami-san didn’t want to do it. Her wish was the only explanation that Sanji needed.
And nobody really trusted Luffy to do it without going overboard and turning Zoro into a mummy.
So that left Sanji as the one assigned to prevent Zoro’s guts from falling out all over the deck. The swordsman wasn’t pleased, but Nami-san punching him in the head and telling him to quit whining about stupid things had shut him up fairly quickly. Ah, Nami-san was so forceful when she was angry!
Sanji growled at the sullen swordsman as he unwrapped the bloodstained bandages, trying to defuse some of his own discomfort. He hadn’t gotten a really close look at the wound on Zoro’s chest since it had been inflicted. His cheeks flushed as he remembered his less-than-noble conduct that day. He’d thought the swordsman was going to die for his dream, and he’d told him to give it up.
Cowardly and disrespectful of him, and part of the reason he fought with the swordsman so much—to prove that he was strong enough to match up with a man who had stared Death in the face and told it to go fuck itself.
Death’s reply was written all over Zoro’s chest. The ink was still wet.
“Dumbass, you tore another staple. You rip yourself up much more, and I’m tying you to a chair until this heals. Even you have to run out of blood eventually, and you’re going to do it if you keep reopening this wound.”
Zoro snorted. “Didn’t know you cared.”
Sanji flushed and declined to dignify that comment with an answer. Besides, he had to focus on wiping the disinfectant the old village doctor had given them across the swordsman’s mess of a chest.
It was still a masterpiece of a body, even cut nearly in half as it was. A beautifully made and honed machine, and Zoro had no respect for it. Sanji knew better than to disrespect his own flesh—he’d come too close to losing it. Sanji felt the familiar spark of rage in his chest and grabbed at it. Being pissed at Zoro was better than feeling uncomfortable and inferior.
Sanji worked himself up into a towering temper as he worked his way down the injury, from shoulder to hip. He’d done this before, for smaller wounds, for his own injuries, for those of the other chefs after an ugly fight. The swordsman’s stoic silence seemed like a further insult to the needs of his body, and the thin trickles of blood that sprang up as fast as Sanji wiped them away were like a cry for help.
Bastard. There were men out there who would kill to have his body.
And Sanji knew of one man who deserved Zoro’s leg far more than he did.
“What the hell are you making that face for, shitty chef?”
Sanji’s temper flared, and he grabbed Zoro’s chin with one blood-and-disinfectant smeared hand. “I’m making that face because I’m in the same room as a jackass who doesn’t give a shit about his body except as something to throw in front of a goddamn sword.”
Zoro grabbed Sanji’s shirt with a hand, yanked him up roughly. Zoro’s powerful muscles flexed, and Sanji saw the wound tear open, right in the middle of the man’s chest.
The hand that had been holding Zoro’s chin swiped down and pressed hard against the fresh injury. Pain flickered in Zoro’s eyes, almost hidden, but not quite.
“Stupid sack of shit,” Sanji hissed, holding up his blood-slicked hand. “You can’t be the greatest swordsman in the world if you’re dead.”
Zoro dropped him. Sanji landed heavily on his knees in front of the swordsman, glaring up at him.
Sanji supposed they were even now, as far as stupid, disrespectful conduct went.
There was thick, angry silence as Sanji bandaged the other man’s chest back up. Sanji picked up the soiled bandages, trying to decide which pot to use to boil them clean, as Zoro pulled on his shirt. Sanji was halfway out the storeroom door when Zoro’s voice stopped him.
“Oi…chef.”
Sanji turned. “Yes, asshole?”
“…Thanks.”
Sanji kicked him in the head.
