![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
salmon_pinkTitle: Tassel-Free
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Gin/Sanji
Rating: R
Words: 5570
Notes: AU.
Summary: Gin doesn't consider himself a connoisseur of strip clubs, mostly because 'connoisseur' is a pretentious word and doesn't belong in the same sentence as 'strip clubs'. Still, he's never visited a strip club quite like this one.
Through his vast experience, Gin has come to the conclusion that there are two types of titty bar.
The first is the gentlemen’s club, where the men are not required to necessarily behave like gentlemen, but they are required to have a gentleman’s wallet - always open and never ending. Such clubs tend to smell like expensive cigar smoke and whiskey, and the patrons often seem more determined to impress the other men than they do the dancing girls; they do not base their tips on how well the girls performed, but rather on the size of the tip given by the table visited before them.
The second is the sleazy dive, where the men are considered valued customers if they can refrain from attempting to insert any part of their body into a dancer’s orifice the second she turns her head. Such places tend to smell like vomit and frustration, and the patrons range from loud and rowdy first-timers to those who visit every night and are just as content to stare at the stains on the wall as they are the dancing girls.
Gin does not particularly like titty bars, but he does like dancing girls, and he really likes dancing girls who are naked, so he has visited many.
Gin feels he does well in both types of bar. In gentlemen’s clubs, he does not try to impress anyone, simply hands over his money without trying to ensure everyone around him can see just how much beri is in his hand, and the girls seem to appreciate his lack of bravado and faffing about. In sleazy dives, he does not try to molest the dancers, and he hands over his beri without any fuss and without the dancers having to point out the ‘Tipping Is Required’ sign that is present in all dive bars across every ocean, and he can usually see the relief on the dancer’s face.
Gin has never had sex with a stripper. He has had quite pleasant conversations with many, often buying them a drink after their sets and talking about whatever takes their fancy - their island, their choice in music, the weather, whatever. Gin quite likes strippers. They tend to be easy to talk to, and always have a good sense of humour. They are not frightened of his reputation; they have seen worse.
Gin is still adjusting to the Grand Line. People cowered at the sight of him in East Blue, whispered Don Krieg’s name in reverential fear.
On the Grand Line, he is a nobody. A nobody who has never had sex with a stripper.
Gentlemen’s clubs tend to have names that have nothing to do with naked dancing girls. Sleazy dives tend to have names that only use the words ‘naked’, ‘dancing’ and ‘girls’.
They’re fairly easy to tell apart without having to set foot inside.
Which is why Gin is perplexed to find himself standing outside a building that looks exactly like every other gentleman’s club and sleazy dive on the Grand Line, with absolutely no idea what kind of bar might await inside.
In all of his vast experience, he’s never seen a bar with a name as obvious and yet as completely confusing as Tangerine Tits.
*
It’s worryingly quiet, is Gin’s first thought. Closely followed by a sense of relief that, no, it does not smell like vomit.
There’s a steady beat echoing from the speakers, nothing Gin recognises, loud enough to drown out the potential conversations of patrons at other tables, he’s sure, but not loud enough that he can’t hear himself think. The bar itself takes up most of one wall, and there’s a small dance floor surrounding the abandoned DJ booth, as if the owners honestly expect the guests to dance, rather than the strippers.
There’s the titty bar standard stage, with a runway protruding between the tables, and the also standard metal pole at the end. A familiar sight, although it remains empty.
Gin makes his way across the room, taking in the suspicious lack of dancing girls, and sits at the bar, as far as possible from the old woman who may or may not be asleep over her pint of beer.
A boy wearing a straw hat who looks too young to be in a strip club, let alone serving behind the bar, stares blankly back at him.
“Scotch,” he grumbles. “A double.” Because Tangerine Tits is the closest thing he’s managed to find to a strip club on this new island, and if it turns out there actually aren’t going to be any naked dancing girls, he may as well start getting drunk now.
Except the kid just stares at him.
Gin glowers back.
The kid doesn’t even blink.
Gin hardens his face into his most threatening glare.
The kid starts absently picking his nose.
Gin can feel a growl rising in his throat. “I sai-”
“Usopp!” the kid bellows suddenly enough that Gin sways in surprise, and the old woman down the bar starts and gurgles a little into her drink. “Customer!”
Another kid, maybe a little older than the first but definitely still in his teens, appears from a door further down the bar. His curly hair is kept off his face by a bandana, and Gin notices he has paint stains on his overalls.
“Can’t you serve one damn person?” he mutters as he approaches, and the straw hat kid shrugs, which only jams his finger further up his nose. The second kid’s face morphs into a fairly impressive customer-service smile when he turns to Gin. “What can I get you?”
“Double scotch,” Gin grunts, and receives a curt nod and a surprisingly clean glass set before him within moments.
“Haven’t seen you around here,” the kid, Usopp apparently, comments as he reaches out for the money.
Ah, the same patter from the staff, no matter which island Gin visits. “I’ve been around,” he answers automatically, which is a lie, they only docked that morning, but Gin doesn’t like people knowing his business, especially not teenagers who are probably too young to drink alcohol legally, let alone serve it. His bounty may be pretty insignificant compared to some on the Grand Line, but there’s never any knowing when someone might try to turn him in for some fast cash.
Usopp nods again, apparently familiar with and unbothered by the brush-off.
So, no naked dancing girls. May as well find a different way to pass the time. “Painting?” Gin asks with a nod towards the colourful smears on Usopp’s clothes.
Usopp grins and nods again. His hair sort of bounces, Gin notices distractedly. He also has an unfathomably long nose.
“Fixing up furniture, trying to make it look new again,” he replies. “Stuff has a habit of getting broken around here,” he adds, and there’s no missing the surreptitious glance towards the green-haired bouncer beside the door, his chair tilted back and balancing awkwardly on two legs, arms folded over his chest as he snores in time to the music.
Gin raises an eyebrow and glances around at the practically empty bar, and Usopp laughs to himself. “Yeah, you caught us on a quiet day,” he explains. “The Marines swept through two nights ago. Ever hear of Captain Hina? Lot of our customers made a run for it, it’ll be a few more nights before they start creeping back.”
Gin nods tightly and concentrates hard on keeping the twitch from his face. Yes, he’s heard of Hina the Black Cage. He’s also learnt very quickly that Grand Line Marines are nothing like those from East Blue. Krieg’s crew had barely survived their last run-in with the Marines, and the guy hadn’t even tried to chase them. He’d just snorted something about not having time to muck around with children, and thrown the biggest cannonball Gin had ever seen over his shoulder as he’d turned away, sinking all but one of the fleet Krieg had been struggling to rebuild.
“The manager was pretty pissed about that,” Usopp says with a shudder that may or may not be for comedic effect. “We’ve told her about going up against the Marines. Well, I’ve told her, at least, that it’s not a good idea.”
“Hey, Nami,” the straw hat kid shouts with what appears to be a characteristic lack of warning. The old woman down the bar snorts as if she’s just woken up.
Usopp looks up and smiles over Gin’s shoulder, and Gin is quite sure he hears him mutter under his breath, “Speaking of the devil.”
Gin glances to his right, then blinks and sits up a little straighter.
Oh, oh please let her be a dancer.
She’s got one hell of a rack, Gin thinks to himself, and there isn’t a follow-up to that thought, because there doesn’t need to be. She’s a redhead, with all the best kinds of curves and a surprisingly small waist. She also has a pair of glasses perched on top of her head and a clipboard in one hand, her suit clinging to her teasingly, and her ridiculously tight skirt is just the perfect length, in that it’s far too short.
Gin can’t see how she can walk in that thing, let alone dance. Gin doesn’t care.
“How are those tables coming, Usopp?” the vision asks, ignoring Gin’s presence.
“Not too bad,” Usopp shrugs. “Painting’s nearly done. They won’t last much longer, though. Maybe it’s time to think about replacing them.” He takes a step back at the glare the redhead shoots him. “Or maybe we could hire an actual repairman. That might be cheaper in the long run.”
The redhead’s manner changes instantly, a warm and ever-so slightly devious smile spreading across her face. “But you’re doing such a good job, why would we need anyone else?”
Usopp snorts and looks sceptical, but there’s an obvious blush beginning to colour his cheeks. “Well, of course I am,” he declares. “The great and talented artist Usopp is alwa-”
“Anyway,” the woman cuts in, settling back into a business demeanour. “I just wanted to let you know that Sanji wants to walk through a new routine while it’s quiet.”
Usopp nods, and the straw hat kid waves as the woman turns on her heel and marches neatly back across the room.
“Wow,” Gin mouths as he watches her hips, and the rest of her, leave.
“Yeah, I know,” Usopp says jovially, filling a tankard and replacing the empty one in front of the dozing old woman without prompting. “Told you she’s been pissy lately.”
“That’s the manager?” Gin blurts before he can stop himself. If she looks like that and she’s working behind the scenes, Gin can’t even begin to imagine what the dancing girls must look like. Sanji isn’t a name he’s heard before, and his mind instantly fills with curvaceous and faceless exotic beauties, and, yeah, maybe it won’t be such a lousy night after all.
“Yep, she’s pretty much in charge of everything,” Usopp says, wiping down the counter. “Who we hire, who we let in, all that stuff. She’s also the one who decided to scrap the menu.”
“I miss the menu,” the straw hat kid pipes up, sounding petulant.
“You used to serve food?” Gin asks, because that’s not something he’s ever encountered at a titty bar before.
“Yeah,” Usopp replies. “Until Nami figured out we can make a much bigger profit by putting the chef onstage instead.”
Gin frowns a little at that, but Usopp just nods over Gin’s shoulder, at the same time Gin recognises the sound of clipped footsteps moving over the area where the stage is set up.
He can admit he’s a little eager when he spins around on his bar stool.
Except the dancing girl isn’t there yet. Instead there’s a tall blonde guy in a smart shirt and trousers, setting a portable CD player on a stool at the head of the stage. He’s kind of skinny, although his shoulders are fairly broad, and Gin can’t really see the guy’s face because there’s a curtain of hair obscuring his view.
The background music fades out, and the manager reappears, sitting near the stage with a pen poised over her clipboard, endless legs crossed in front of her.
The old woman down the bar blinks blearily and turns towards the runway.
The straw hat kid hops up on to the bar, swinging his legs over the side and drumming his bare heels against the wood.
Gin breathlessly waits for the dancing girl to appear.
She doesn’t.
Instead, the blonde guy presses a button on the CD player, the sultry wail of a single saxophone filling the room, and starts to move along the runway.
Gin’s beginning to think he’s got the wrong bar.
The guy appears to be counting under his breath, walking slowly in time to the music, glancing back at the main stage and then to the end of the runway. Measuring his steps, Gin realises, his steps, because he’s the damn dancer, and, yes, Gin has the wrong bar and, fuck yes, he’s leaving now.
Several things happen at once.
Gin sneers to himself and puts one foot on the floor, with the intention of the second foot following closely behind.
The lilting saxophone is violently joined by a thumping beat and an impressive guitar riff.
The guy onstage raises his arms above his head, wrists crossed carefully, and cocks his hip to the side in a motion that can only be described as ‘undulating honey’.
Gin’s second foot never reaches the floor.
Instead, he finds himself watching as if independent from his body, most specifically his brain, as the blonde, who his brain might helpfully inform him must be Sanji if his brain were still attached to the rest of him, begins to dance.
It’s slow, painfully slow, the way he moves, hips swinging to one side in a graceful curve, back arching just slightly, head tilted back to reveal the teasing curve of his neck above his conservatively fastened tie. There’s something about the control there, the way he moves as though through water, something that suggests strength and awareness, something that has Gin swallowing thickly. He’s still counting, lips moving slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, glancing up and down the runway before apparently deciding on his path, and yet his feet never falter, never lose the rhythm of the music.
It’s oddly like watching an animal move, something inhuman and disarmingly beautiful, and that last thought should feel wrong but it doesn’t.
Because the fact is that Gin is watching a guy dance. A guy. And he can’t even find the presence of mind to be ashamed of the way his jaw is hanging open.
Gin likes dancing girls, because Gin is used to being around men all the time. Men are for killing or for killing with. Men are sweaty and stinking and, in Gin’s usual crowd, bloodied. Men are for fighting and laughing and drinking with.
In contrast, dancing girls seem like a mythical creature from some distant dream world.
And it’s a man on the stage, no denying that, yet he’s not like anybody Gin has ever seen before. He’s not effeminate, not in the slightest, and yet there’s something about him that leaves Gin licking his suddenly dry lips in a way that only the most skilled and busty of dancing girls can usually achieve.
The man, Sanji, rolls his head back, eyes closing momentarily as he shifts his weight to his other leg in one fluid motion, swaying slightly as if he’s unaware of the eyes watching him, hungrily studying him. Caught in his own world, and Gin feels like a voyeur, like he’s unwelcome, and like he can’t look away. It’s so different from before, no crooked fingers and knowing smiles from girls who are probably sizing up the generosity of his potential tip. He feels uncomfortable, fidgeting slightly on his stool, and the room feels hot, the air feels oppressive, and it’s growing more and more difficult to breathe. He shouldn’t be there, he realises distractedly, because this show isn’t for him. It can’t be. It’s too private. It’s too intimate.
The tempo begins to gather speed, and Sanji’s gait matches the pace as he moves down the runway, and yet he never seems to hurry. Each step is purposeful, and Gin can imagine the long legs hidden by the fabric, can almost see the shift of muscles, and his own thundering heartbeat is jarring against his chest. Sanji’s arms lower, hands following the lines of his chest and the planes of his stomach, fingers raking lightly over his shirt, and Gin finds his eyes glued to their movements, unable to blink.
He watches dumbly as Sanji’s thumbs hook in the belt loops of his trousers, and the fluid and subtle forward roll of his hips somehow manages to be the most pornographic thing Gin has ever seen.
He distractedly feels his palms sweating.
He watches as Sanji raises those hands once again, one angling higher this time, fingers sliding over the knot of his tie, pausing there, and Gin almost wants to scream, wants to growl at him to pull it loose, wants to beg and plead. Wants to move closer, and he can’t decide if he should be glad or not to find himself completely paralysed.
There’s a groan caught in his throat, and he can only pray that the music masks it, as the tie, second by aching second, begins to release its hold on Sanji’s throat, revealing the first button of that perfectly pressed shirt to be undone, in turn revealing the most tantalising slither of flesh Gin has ever been fortunate enough to glimpse.
Sanji slinks further down the runway, prowls across the space, letting the tie play through his fingers and Gin finds his eyes torn between those clearly skilled hands and that flash of skin beneath the collar of his shirt. Gin can’t say he’s ever had any kind of sexual inclination towards a man before, and yet now the possibilities seem endless and obvious and fascinating. Men know how to be rough, and men know that other men don’t break, and, fuck, he can just imagine it, his teeth at Sanji’s throat, nosing aside the shirt to dig into the heated flesh below, tasting the skin at Sanji’s jaw. Hearing him beg for it, whimper and hiss for it, because he would, Gin knows he would, because he can see Sanji is sensual, sexual, and he somehow knows that Sanji would like it just that little bit harder. He can almost feel Sanji’s hands on him, and they’d be just as unrelenting as the beat that throbs in his ears, tugging, tearing at his clothes, pulling him closer. Clinging to him, fingers digging into his thighs, and Gin knows his own fingers are doing just that, burrowing themselves into his thighs harshly enough to bruise, yet he can’t quite release his grip.
And then Sanji turns, the empty chairs surrounding the runway getting the perfect view from every angle, and Gin’s eyes are drawn to their own perfect view, and how did he not notice quite how snug those trousers were? His own trousers feel snug in a very different way, and at some point he started making an odd wheezy noise with every breath, and his usually not-particularly-utilised imagination dances over his frazzled nerves with nowhere near the kind of grace that Sanji displays as he bends slightly at the waist while Gin blatantly stares at his ass.
It really is an incredible ass.
Gin knows the things men can do together in the same way he knows homosexuality exists, in that it didn’t really matter to him in any way, shape or form until a few minutes ago. Now it’s as if a myriad of filthy and half-realised images have been released from somewhere deep at the back of his mind, and Sanji’s there for every single one of them. Bent over a table, over a chair, over the bar, over any available surface, and that tight ass is pressed against Gin’s imaginary self’s crotch, and his mind grows bolder and more frenzied by the second, stripping away the layers of Sanji’s clothing, stripping away his own, until there’s nothing between them besides Gin’s fumbling inexperience and inevitability.
And right when Gin’s imaginary self is about to just go for it, knowledge of specifics and mechanics be damned, there’s a flurry of movement that still manages to be breathtakingly sinuous, and Gin watches with slack-jawed awe as Sanji swings effortlessly around the pole.
All hope is lost as Gin’s mind struggles to position himself in the place of the pole, and Gin may only be able to move a scant few millimetres at a time but he’s using that to scoot closer to the edge of his seat, and Sanji circles the pole once, before turning gracefully on his heel and dipping backwards, spine arching and hair brushing the floor as he catches his weight easily with the one hand still wrapped around the pole.
Gin realises the music has reached its conclusion at the same time he realises his hips are attempting to subtly thrust into thin air.
It takes another moment to realise that loud noise is actually the straw hat kid clapping right beside his ear, and not his heart attempting to fight its way through his ribs.
Gin blinks rapidly, tries to will away the red and black that frames his vision. Sanji’s standing upright again, right until he isn’t, and Gin has to force himself to look away as Sanji bends to pluck the tie that he apparently dropped at some point from the stage floor, because self-awareness is clearly a horrible and humiliating mistress, and brings the added bonus of reminding him that not only was he just gawping at a male dancer, but he is now painfully, painfully hard.
He turns back to the bar, studying the still untouched drink in front of him, and manages to resist turning to look at Sanji, except for the single time that he does just that. He’s standing beside the manager, his back to Gin which provides another challenge in keeping his eyes firmly above Sanji’s shoulders. The redhead appears to be reading him a list of notes from her clipboard, and Gin can see him nodding enthusiastically before he tears his eyes away.
The sounds of the room gradually become distinguishable from the blood rushing in his ears. There’s the straw hat kid knocking his feet rhythmically against the wooden panelling, the clink of glasses as Usopp moves around behind the bar. The old woman sighing in satisfaction as she drains her drink. The bouncer giving a particularly loud and rattling snore from the doorway.
“Yes, exactly what I had in mind,” he hears the manager say, and realises she’s now right behind him. “If you do that an hour or two before your normal set, that should work for good word-of-mouth.”
“Yes, Nami-san,” an emphatic male voice answers, sounding incredibly pleased as the click of stilettos moves away.
Gin reaches for his drink, but doesn’t really get further than that. His arm remains awkwardly suspended, fingers gripping the glass hard enough that he’s honestly surprised it doesn’t shatter in his grip, as he realises Sanji is standing right beside him.
“That was awesome, Sanji,” the straw hat boy says cheerfully, swinging around to sit cross-legged. “Cool music.”
Gin can hear the rustle of fabric as Sanji moves around the barstool to his right.
“Yeah,” Usopp agrees, handing Sanji a clean glass over the bar. “Looks like Nami’s in a better mood, so she must think it’ll bring in more punters.”
So close, and, shit, Gin can almost smell him.
“Anything to please the incredible Nami-san,” Sanji purrs, and his voice is exactly as it should be, rich and smooth and knowing, and the glass quakes in Gin’s grip.
And then Sanji leans over the bar, reaching for a bottle of the same scotch currently sloshing dangerously in Gin’s hand, that lithe body stretching out close enough that Gin can feel its heat, and he’s going to do something stupid, he knows he is, and he can feel his eyes following the curve of Sanji’s spine, lower, lower…
“Oi, you gonna drink that?” the old woman croaks loudly and Gin snaps back to reality with an almost audible crack when he realises she’s eying the trembling drink in his hand.
He shrugs stiffly, not trusting his voice, and slides the glass down the bar towards her, feeling oddly uncomfortable at the smirk she aims at him.
“Is there something wrong with our booze?” Sanji snaps to his right, only his voice is suddenly harsher, deeper, scathing.
Gin shrugs again, only it ends up feeling more like a shudder. Sanji is talking to him. Sanji is talking to him.
“No,” Gin says, only there are about three extra syllables to the word because his voice is kind of shaking.
He can feel Sanji’s gaze boring into the side of his face. He can turn to look, he can, he can turn to look without trying to do something that will get him thrown out.
Gin turns to look. Sanji has really blue eyes. Gin grips the bar hard enough that he’s pretty sure there’s a splinter working its way under his fingernail.
“She looks like she needed it more,” he blurts out, and he’s never heard his voice sound so high or hysterical before. He’s also a little too loud, because Sanji leans away slightly, eyes widening, and he hears the woman make a grumbling noise, but he’s beyond caring.
Sanji is staring at him. Usopp is staring at him. The straw hat kid is staring at him.
Somewhere, thankfully, the manager clicks the background music back on.
With the renewed beat comes a wave of raucous laughter from the straw hat kid, and Gin might almost be offended, except Sanji grins and that’s enough to make Gin’s heart stop, leap about in his throat, and then splutter feebly from the depths of his stomach.
There’s this slight crinkle around Sanji’s eyes, and his smile is so broad and honest, and his teeth flash perfect white under the dim lighting, and Gin swallows and tries to force his own laugh, only it’s more of a choking noise.
“Good one,” Sanji snorts, chuckling slightly as he pours himself a drink, and Gin can feel himself sweating. He watches Sanji screw the top back onto the bottle and hand it to Usopp, and then take a measured sip, before smiling to himself, small and secret, staring down into the amber liquid.
There’s an awkward silence, one that appears to only be effecting Gin, somehow only made more obvious by the rhythmic pounding of the music. He’s never felt the need to talk just to fill a silence before, he’s never been one for talking at all, preferring to let his glare and his penchant for violence do the communicating. But now the silence unsettles him, as glaring as the measly few inches of air between Sanji’s shoulder and his own that seem to stretch for miles.
“I didn’t know this was that kind of bar,” he says in a rush, voice sounding strangled.
Sanji shoots a sideways glance, smile vanished. “What kind of bar?” he asks thinly, and Gin is starting to feel like he’s done something wrong.
“You know,” he mutters, wrist flailing uselessly in the air as he indicates the general bar around them and Sanji himself. “That kind of bar.”
Sanji’s eyes narrow. “What kind of bar?” he asks again, voice quiet, and Gin feels a icy shiver run down his spine.
“You know,” he repeats, because he sure as hell doesn’t. “A, uh, a guy bar. For guys. To dance.”
He thinks he might hear Usopp suck in a deep breath, but he can’t be sure.
“It isn’t,” Sanji hisses, leaning closer in a manner that could be threatening but only makes Gin want to close the last bit of distance between them. “I wouldn’t work here if it was.”
For a moment, Gin isn’t sure what’s going to happen first - Sanji spitting the insult so clearly on the tip of his tongue, or Gin lurching forward and finding another use for his mouth.
Instead Sanji jerks away, snatching up his glass and downing the remaining scotch, glaring at the wooden surface of the bar, and Gin thinks wistfully that he should have kept his own damn drink because his throat is suddenly dry and rough as sandpaper.
Unfortunately a quick glance down the bar confirms the old woman has already thrown it back and is watching him with an eerie combination of shrewdness and unfocused eyes.
Gin feels a flutter of air beside his hand, and looks back just in time to see a deep red silk tie land on the bar, so close that the most minute twitch of his fingers would lead to him stroking the fabric.
Sanji is talking, still sounding agitated. Usopp is responding, so Gin can assume that he’s not the one being addressed. The straw hat kid could have melted or exploded or turned to ice for all Gin is aware.
Because the tie, the tie, is lying right beside his hand. The tie that had coiled itself around Sanji’s throat. The tie he had slowly pulled loose from that slender neck like it hadn’t wanted to let go. The tie that had snaked and slipped through Sanji’s fingers like syrup.
The tie, and it’s hypnotic, the colour of blood and lust, and it seems to shimmer before him, to shiver with his every breath, calling to him, whispering to him, warm from the heat of Sanji’s body…
“Okay, see you later,” Usopp says, and Gin realises that Sanji is standing. Sanji is moving away, which is so, so wrong, and Gin can’t speak, can’t try to stop him, can only open and close his mouth as he watches Sanji walk away.
He can’t, no, and Gin has never needed anything so much in his entire life as he needs Sanji to stay.
Needs him to turn around, to come back, to smile at him again. Needs him to dance again, needs to see more of him.
The tie, his mind manages after a few false starts of spluttering and whimpering at him. He forgot his tie, Sanji forgot his tie, and Gin can give it back to him, maybe talk to him, start a conversation, a better conversation, maybe their fingers will brush, maybe Sanji will step a little closer, and the music begins to throb in Gin’s veins, and he’s going to do it, he has to, and he’s reaching for the tie.
Which isn’t there anymore.
Gin looks up, wide-eyed and panting, at the red material in Usopp’s hand.
“Forgot his tie,” Usopp is muttering distractedly. “I’ll give it back to him later.”
Gin isn’t thinking. Gin isn’t thinking, and Sanji isn’t come back, and he hears the shriek before he realises he’s moving.
*
It’s quite nice to be back outside. The evening air is cool and crisp and Gin hadn’t realised just how flushed his skin is.
Then the concrete rushes up to meet him.
He hits the ground face-first, disorientated and winded, and the most he can manage is to roll over onto his back, panting for breath.
“And stay out,” the bouncer snorts, sounding bored and unimpressed, before he stalks back into the building.
He can hear shouting through the not-quite closed door, but it’s only the sound of Sanji’s raised voice, angry and exasperated, that draws his attention.
“-The fuck? What’d you do that for, shithead?”
“He attacked Usopp,” comes the growled response.
“I could have kicked his ass,” Sanji snarls.
“It’s my job!” the bouncer snaps back.
Gin feels woozy and light-headed, for all the lack of alcohol in his evening. It’s as though time slipped away from him for a moment, and Gin has felt the exhilaration of battle before, has felt himself becoming caught up in the sick thrill of bones cracking all around him, but he’s never quite lost himself in such a way before.
He remembers the scrape of his barstool behind him, the clatter that followed, the weightlessness as he’d launched himself over the bar.
Beyond that? Nothing. He’s back to being a nobody. A nobody lying in the gutter outside a titty bar.
A nobody who has never had sex with a stripper.
A nobody who might just have witnessed the most erotic striptease ever performed on the Grand Line, even if it was performed by a man, and even if he did only take off his tie.
Which can’t be right, can’t be real, and reality feels like it’s trying to claw its way back to him.
Honestly, Gin’s starting to think that maybe the whole thing was a hallucination.
Right up until the redheaded manager leans out of the door, smiling widely. “Feel free to come back anytime,” she calls cheerily. Right until her eyes narrow and her voice drops an octave as she adds, “Bring money.”
The neon sign buzzes above him, the orange letters flickering slightly as she slams the door shut behind her.
Sequel: Asshole-Free
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Gin/Sanji
Rating: R
Words: 5570
Notes: AU.
Summary: Gin doesn't consider himself a connoisseur of strip clubs, mostly because 'connoisseur' is a pretentious word and doesn't belong in the same sentence as 'strip clubs'. Still, he's never visited a strip club quite like this one.
Through his vast experience, Gin has come to the conclusion that there are two types of titty bar.
The first is the gentlemen’s club, where the men are not required to necessarily behave like gentlemen, but they are required to have a gentleman’s wallet - always open and never ending. Such clubs tend to smell like expensive cigar smoke and whiskey, and the patrons often seem more determined to impress the other men than they do the dancing girls; they do not base their tips on how well the girls performed, but rather on the size of the tip given by the table visited before them.
The second is the sleazy dive, where the men are considered valued customers if they can refrain from attempting to insert any part of their body into a dancer’s orifice the second she turns her head. Such places tend to smell like vomit and frustration, and the patrons range from loud and rowdy first-timers to those who visit every night and are just as content to stare at the stains on the wall as they are the dancing girls.
Gin does not particularly like titty bars, but he does like dancing girls, and he really likes dancing girls who are naked, so he has visited many.
Gin feels he does well in both types of bar. In gentlemen’s clubs, he does not try to impress anyone, simply hands over his money without trying to ensure everyone around him can see just how much beri is in his hand, and the girls seem to appreciate his lack of bravado and faffing about. In sleazy dives, he does not try to molest the dancers, and he hands over his beri without any fuss and without the dancers having to point out the ‘Tipping Is Required’ sign that is present in all dive bars across every ocean, and he can usually see the relief on the dancer’s face.
Gin has never had sex with a stripper. He has had quite pleasant conversations with many, often buying them a drink after their sets and talking about whatever takes their fancy - their island, their choice in music, the weather, whatever. Gin quite likes strippers. They tend to be easy to talk to, and always have a good sense of humour. They are not frightened of his reputation; they have seen worse.
Gin is still adjusting to the Grand Line. People cowered at the sight of him in East Blue, whispered Don Krieg’s name in reverential fear.
On the Grand Line, he is a nobody. A nobody who has never had sex with a stripper.
Gentlemen’s clubs tend to have names that have nothing to do with naked dancing girls. Sleazy dives tend to have names that only use the words ‘naked’, ‘dancing’ and ‘girls’.
They’re fairly easy to tell apart without having to set foot inside.
Which is why Gin is perplexed to find himself standing outside a building that looks exactly like every other gentleman’s club and sleazy dive on the Grand Line, with absolutely no idea what kind of bar might await inside.
In all of his vast experience, he’s never seen a bar with a name as obvious and yet as completely confusing as Tangerine Tits.
*
It’s worryingly quiet, is Gin’s first thought. Closely followed by a sense of relief that, no, it does not smell like vomit.
There’s a steady beat echoing from the speakers, nothing Gin recognises, loud enough to drown out the potential conversations of patrons at other tables, he’s sure, but not loud enough that he can’t hear himself think. The bar itself takes up most of one wall, and there’s a small dance floor surrounding the abandoned DJ booth, as if the owners honestly expect the guests to dance, rather than the strippers.
There’s the titty bar standard stage, with a runway protruding between the tables, and the also standard metal pole at the end. A familiar sight, although it remains empty.
Gin makes his way across the room, taking in the suspicious lack of dancing girls, and sits at the bar, as far as possible from the old woman who may or may not be asleep over her pint of beer.
A boy wearing a straw hat who looks too young to be in a strip club, let alone serving behind the bar, stares blankly back at him.
“Scotch,” he grumbles. “A double.” Because Tangerine Tits is the closest thing he’s managed to find to a strip club on this new island, and if it turns out there actually aren’t going to be any naked dancing girls, he may as well start getting drunk now.
Except the kid just stares at him.
Gin glowers back.
The kid doesn’t even blink.
Gin hardens his face into his most threatening glare.
The kid starts absently picking his nose.
Gin can feel a growl rising in his throat. “I sai-”
“Usopp!” the kid bellows suddenly enough that Gin sways in surprise, and the old woman down the bar starts and gurgles a little into her drink. “Customer!”
Another kid, maybe a little older than the first but definitely still in his teens, appears from a door further down the bar. His curly hair is kept off his face by a bandana, and Gin notices he has paint stains on his overalls.
“Can’t you serve one damn person?” he mutters as he approaches, and the straw hat kid shrugs, which only jams his finger further up his nose. The second kid’s face morphs into a fairly impressive customer-service smile when he turns to Gin. “What can I get you?”
“Double scotch,” Gin grunts, and receives a curt nod and a surprisingly clean glass set before him within moments.
“Haven’t seen you around here,” the kid, Usopp apparently, comments as he reaches out for the money.
Ah, the same patter from the staff, no matter which island Gin visits. “I’ve been around,” he answers automatically, which is a lie, they only docked that morning, but Gin doesn’t like people knowing his business, especially not teenagers who are probably too young to drink alcohol legally, let alone serve it. His bounty may be pretty insignificant compared to some on the Grand Line, but there’s never any knowing when someone might try to turn him in for some fast cash.
Usopp nods again, apparently familiar with and unbothered by the brush-off.
So, no naked dancing girls. May as well find a different way to pass the time. “Painting?” Gin asks with a nod towards the colourful smears on Usopp’s clothes.
Usopp grins and nods again. His hair sort of bounces, Gin notices distractedly. He also has an unfathomably long nose.
“Fixing up furniture, trying to make it look new again,” he replies. “Stuff has a habit of getting broken around here,” he adds, and there’s no missing the surreptitious glance towards the green-haired bouncer beside the door, his chair tilted back and balancing awkwardly on two legs, arms folded over his chest as he snores in time to the music.
Gin raises an eyebrow and glances around at the practically empty bar, and Usopp laughs to himself. “Yeah, you caught us on a quiet day,” he explains. “The Marines swept through two nights ago. Ever hear of Captain Hina? Lot of our customers made a run for it, it’ll be a few more nights before they start creeping back.”
Gin nods tightly and concentrates hard on keeping the twitch from his face. Yes, he’s heard of Hina the Black Cage. He’s also learnt very quickly that Grand Line Marines are nothing like those from East Blue. Krieg’s crew had barely survived their last run-in with the Marines, and the guy hadn’t even tried to chase them. He’d just snorted something about not having time to muck around with children, and thrown the biggest cannonball Gin had ever seen over his shoulder as he’d turned away, sinking all but one of the fleet Krieg had been struggling to rebuild.
“The manager was pretty pissed about that,” Usopp says with a shudder that may or may not be for comedic effect. “We’ve told her about going up against the Marines. Well, I’ve told her, at least, that it’s not a good idea.”
“Hey, Nami,” the straw hat kid shouts with what appears to be a characteristic lack of warning. The old woman down the bar snorts as if she’s just woken up.
Usopp looks up and smiles over Gin’s shoulder, and Gin is quite sure he hears him mutter under his breath, “Speaking of the devil.”
Gin glances to his right, then blinks and sits up a little straighter.
Oh, oh please let her be a dancer.
She’s got one hell of a rack, Gin thinks to himself, and there isn’t a follow-up to that thought, because there doesn’t need to be. She’s a redhead, with all the best kinds of curves and a surprisingly small waist. She also has a pair of glasses perched on top of her head and a clipboard in one hand, her suit clinging to her teasingly, and her ridiculously tight skirt is just the perfect length, in that it’s far too short.
Gin can’t see how she can walk in that thing, let alone dance. Gin doesn’t care.
“How are those tables coming, Usopp?” the vision asks, ignoring Gin’s presence.
“Not too bad,” Usopp shrugs. “Painting’s nearly done. They won’t last much longer, though. Maybe it’s time to think about replacing them.” He takes a step back at the glare the redhead shoots him. “Or maybe we could hire an actual repairman. That might be cheaper in the long run.”
The redhead’s manner changes instantly, a warm and ever-so slightly devious smile spreading across her face. “But you’re doing such a good job, why would we need anyone else?”
Usopp snorts and looks sceptical, but there’s an obvious blush beginning to colour his cheeks. “Well, of course I am,” he declares. “The great and talented artist Usopp is alwa-”
“Anyway,” the woman cuts in, settling back into a business demeanour. “I just wanted to let you know that Sanji wants to walk through a new routine while it’s quiet.”
Usopp nods, and the straw hat kid waves as the woman turns on her heel and marches neatly back across the room.
“Wow,” Gin mouths as he watches her hips, and the rest of her, leave.
“Yeah, I know,” Usopp says jovially, filling a tankard and replacing the empty one in front of the dozing old woman without prompting. “Told you she’s been pissy lately.”
“That’s the manager?” Gin blurts before he can stop himself. If she looks like that and she’s working behind the scenes, Gin can’t even begin to imagine what the dancing girls must look like. Sanji isn’t a name he’s heard before, and his mind instantly fills with curvaceous and faceless exotic beauties, and, yeah, maybe it won’t be such a lousy night after all.
“Yep, she’s pretty much in charge of everything,” Usopp says, wiping down the counter. “Who we hire, who we let in, all that stuff. She’s also the one who decided to scrap the menu.”
“I miss the menu,” the straw hat kid pipes up, sounding petulant.
“You used to serve food?” Gin asks, because that’s not something he’s ever encountered at a titty bar before.
“Yeah,” Usopp replies. “Until Nami figured out we can make a much bigger profit by putting the chef onstage instead.”
Gin frowns a little at that, but Usopp just nods over Gin’s shoulder, at the same time Gin recognises the sound of clipped footsteps moving over the area where the stage is set up.
He can admit he’s a little eager when he spins around on his bar stool.
Except the dancing girl isn’t there yet. Instead there’s a tall blonde guy in a smart shirt and trousers, setting a portable CD player on a stool at the head of the stage. He’s kind of skinny, although his shoulders are fairly broad, and Gin can’t really see the guy’s face because there’s a curtain of hair obscuring his view.
The background music fades out, and the manager reappears, sitting near the stage with a pen poised over her clipboard, endless legs crossed in front of her.
The old woman down the bar blinks blearily and turns towards the runway.
The straw hat kid hops up on to the bar, swinging his legs over the side and drumming his bare heels against the wood.
Gin breathlessly waits for the dancing girl to appear.
She doesn’t.
Instead, the blonde guy presses a button on the CD player, the sultry wail of a single saxophone filling the room, and starts to move along the runway.
Gin’s beginning to think he’s got the wrong bar.
The guy appears to be counting under his breath, walking slowly in time to the music, glancing back at the main stage and then to the end of the runway. Measuring his steps, Gin realises, his steps, because he’s the damn dancer, and, yes, Gin has the wrong bar and, fuck yes, he’s leaving now.
Several things happen at once.
Gin sneers to himself and puts one foot on the floor, with the intention of the second foot following closely behind.
The lilting saxophone is violently joined by a thumping beat and an impressive guitar riff.
The guy onstage raises his arms above his head, wrists crossed carefully, and cocks his hip to the side in a motion that can only be described as ‘undulating honey’.
Gin’s second foot never reaches the floor.
Instead, he finds himself watching as if independent from his body, most specifically his brain, as the blonde, who his brain might helpfully inform him must be Sanji if his brain were still attached to the rest of him, begins to dance.
It’s slow, painfully slow, the way he moves, hips swinging to one side in a graceful curve, back arching just slightly, head tilted back to reveal the teasing curve of his neck above his conservatively fastened tie. There’s something about the control there, the way he moves as though through water, something that suggests strength and awareness, something that has Gin swallowing thickly. He’s still counting, lips moving slightly, brow furrowed in concentration, glancing up and down the runway before apparently deciding on his path, and yet his feet never falter, never lose the rhythm of the music.
It’s oddly like watching an animal move, something inhuman and disarmingly beautiful, and that last thought should feel wrong but it doesn’t.
Because the fact is that Gin is watching a guy dance. A guy. And he can’t even find the presence of mind to be ashamed of the way his jaw is hanging open.
Gin likes dancing girls, because Gin is used to being around men all the time. Men are for killing or for killing with. Men are sweaty and stinking and, in Gin’s usual crowd, bloodied. Men are for fighting and laughing and drinking with.
In contrast, dancing girls seem like a mythical creature from some distant dream world.
And it’s a man on the stage, no denying that, yet he’s not like anybody Gin has ever seen before. He’s not effeminate, not in the slightest, and yet there’s something about him that leaves Gin licking his suddenly dry lips in a way that only the most skilled and busty of dancing girls can usually achieve.
The man, Sanji, rolls his head back, eyes closing momentarily as he shifts his weight to his other leg in one fluid motion, swaying slightly as if he’s unaware of the eyes watching him, hungrily studying him. Caught in his own world, and Gin feels like a voyeur, like he’s unwelcome, and like he can’t look away. It’s so different from before, no crooked fingers and knowing smiles from girls who are probably sizing up the generosity of his potential tip. He feels uncomfortable, fidgeting slightly on his stool, and the room feels hot, the air feels oppressive, and it’s growing more and more difficult to breathe. He shouldn’t be there, he realises distractedly, because this show isn’t for him. It can’t be. It’s too private. It’s too intimate.
The tempo begins to gather speed, and Sanji’s gait matches the pace as he moves down the runway, and yet he never seems to hurry. Each step is purposeful, and Gin can imagine the long legs hidden by the fabric, can almost see the shift of muscles, and his own thundering heartbeat is jarring against his chest. Sanji’s arms lower, hands following the lines of his chest and the planes of his stomach, fingers raking lightly over his shirt, and Gin finds his eyes glued to their movements, unable to blink.
He watches dumbly as Sanji’s thumbs hook in the belt loops of his trousers, and the fluid and subtle forward roll of his hips somehow manages to be the most pornographic thing Gin has ever seen.
He distractedly feels his palms sweating.
He watches as Sanji raises those hands once again, one angling higher this time, fingers sliding over the knot of his tie, pausing there, and Gin almost wants to scream, wants to growl at him to pull it loose, wants to beg and plead. Wants to move closer, and he can’t decide if he should be glad or not to find himself completely paralysed.
There’s a groan caught in his throat, and he can only pray that the music masks it, as the tie, second by aching second, begins to release its hold on Sanji’s throat, revealing the first button of that perfectly pressed shirt to be undone, in turn revealing the most tantalising slither of flesh Gin has ever been fortunate enough to glimpse.
Sanji slinks further down the runway, prowls across the space, letting the tie play through his fingers and Gin finds his eyes torn between those clearly skilled hands and that flash of skin beneath the collar of his shirt. Gin can’t say he’s ever had any kind of sexual inclination towards a man before, and yet now the possibilities seem endless and obvious and fascinating. Men know how to be rough, and men know that other men don’t break, and, fuck, he can just imagine it, his teeth at Sanji’s throat, nosing aside the shirt to dig into the heated flesh below, tasting the skin at Sanji’s jaw. Hearing him beg for it, whimper and hiss for it, because he would, Gin knows he would, because he can see Sanji is sensual, sexual, and he somehow knows that Sanji would like it just that little bit harder. He can almost feel Sanji’s hands on him, and they’d be just as unrelenting as the beat that throbs in his ears, tugging, tearing at his clothes, pulling him closer. Clinging to him, fingers digging into his thighs, and Gin knows his own fingers are doing just that, burrowing themselves into his thighs harshly enough to bruise, yet he can’t quite release his grip.
And then Sanji turns, the empty chairs surrounding the runway getting the perfect view from every angle, and Gin’s eyes are drawn to their own perfect view, and how did he not notice quite how snug those trousers were? His own trousers feel snug in a very different way, and at some point he started making an odd wheezy noise with every breath, and his usually not-particularly-utilised imagination dances over his frazzled nerves with nowhere near the kind of grace that Sanji displays as he bends slightly at the waist while Gin blatantly stares at his ass.
It really is an incredible ass.
Gin knows the things men can do together in the same way he knows homosexuality exists, in that it didn’t really matter to him in any way, shape or form until a few minutes ago. Now it’s as if a myriad of filthy and half-realised images have been released from somewhere deep at the back of his mind, and Sanji’s there for every single one of them. Bent over a table, over a chair, over the bar, over any available surface, and that tight ass is pressed against Gin’s imaginary self’s crotch, and his mind grows bolder and more frenzied by the second, stripping away the layers of Sanji’s clothing, stripping away his own, until there’s nothing between them besides Gin’s fumbling inexperience and inevitability.
And right when Gin’s imaginary self is about to just go for it, knowledge of specifics and mechanics be damned, there’s a flurry of movement that still manages to be breathtakingly sinuous, and Gin watches with slack-jawed awe as Sanji swings effortlessly around the pole.
All hope is lost as Gin’s mind struggles to position himself in the place of the pole, and Gin may only be able to move a scant few millimetres at a time but he’s using that to scoot closer to the edge of his seat, and Sanji circles the pole once, before turning gracefully on his heel and dipping backwards, spine arching and hair brushing the floor as he catches his weight easily with the one hand still wrapped around the pole.
Gin realises the music has reached its conclusion at the same time he realises his hips are attempting to subtly thrust into thin air.
It takes another moment to realise that loud noise is actually the straw hat kid clapping right beside his ear, and not his heart attempting to fight its way through his ribs.
Gin blinks rapidly, tries to will away the red and black that frames his vision. Sanji’s standing upright again, right until he isn’t, and Gin has to force himself to look away as Sanji bends to pluck the tie that he apparently dropped at some point from the stage floor, because self-awareness is clearly a horrible and humiliating mistress, and brings the added bonus of reminding him that not only was he just gawping at a male dancer, but he is now painfully, painfully hard.
He turns back to the bar, studying the still untouched drink in front of him, and manages to resist turning to look at Sanji, except for the single time that he does just that. He’s standing beside the manager, his back to Gin which provides another challenge in keeping his eyes firmly above Sanji’s shoulders. The redhead appears to be reading him a list of notes from her clipboard, and Gin can see him nodding enthusiastically before he tears his eyes away.
The sounds of the room gradually become distinguishable from the blood rushing in his ears. There’s the straw hat kid knocking his feet rhythmically against the wooden panelling, the clink of glasses as Usopp moves around behind the bar. The old woman sighing in satisfaction as she drains her drink. The bouncer giving a particularly loud and rattling snore from the doorway.
“Yes, exactly what I had in mind,” he hears the manager say, and realises she’s now right behind him. “If you do that an hour or two before your normal set, that should work for good word-of-mouth.”
“Yes, Nami-san,” an emphatic male voice answers, sounding incredibly pleased as the click of stilettos moves away.
Gin reaches for his drink, but doesn’t really get further than that. His arm remains awkwardly suspended, fingers gripping the glass hard enough that he’s honestly surprised it doesn’t shatter in his grip, as he realises Sanji is standing right beside him.
“That was awesome, Sanji,” the straw hat boy says cheerfully, swinging around to sit cross-legged. “Cool music.”
Gin can hear the rustle of fabric as Sanji moves around the barstool to his right.
“Yeah,” Usopp agrees, handing Sanji a clean glass over the bar. “Looks like Nami’s in a better mood, so she must think it’ll bring in more punters.”
So close, and, shit, Gin can almost smell him.
“Anything to please the incredible Nami-san,” Sanji purrs, and his voice is exactly as it should be, rich and smooth and knowing, and the glass quakes in Gin’s grip.
And then Sanji leans over the bar, reaching for a bottle of the same scotch currently sloshing dangerously in Gin’s hand, that lithe body stretching out close enough that Gin can feel its heat, and he’s going to do something stupid, he knows he is, and he can feel his eyes following the curve of Sanji’s spine, lower, lower…
“Oi, you gonna drink that?” the old woman croaks loudly and Gin snaps back to reality with an almost audible crack when he realises she’s eying the trembling drink in his hand.
He shrugs stiffly, not trusting his voice, and slides the glass down the bar towards her, feeling oddly uncomfortable at the smirk she aims at him.
“Is there something wrong with our booze?” Sanji snaps to his right, only his voice is suddenly harsher, deeper, scathing.
Gin shrugs again, only it ends up feeling more like a shudder. Sanji is talking to him. Sanji is talking to him.
“No,” Gin says, only there are about three extra syllables to the word because his voice is kind of shaking.
He can feel Sanji’s gaze boring into the side of his face. He can turn to look, he can, he can turn to look without trying to do something that will get him thrown out.
Gin turns to look. Sanji has really blue eyes. Gin grips the bar hard enough that he’s pretty sure there’s a splinter working its way under his fingernail.
“She looks like she needed it more,” he blurts out, and he’s never heard his voice sound so high or hysterical before. He’s also a little too loud, because Sanji leans away slightly, eyes widening, and he hears the woman make a grumbling noise, but he’s beyond caring.
Sanji is staring at him. Usopp is staring at him. The straw hat kid is staring at him.
Somewhere, thankfully, the manager clicks the background music back on.
With the renewed beat comes a wave of raucous laughter from the straw hat kid, and Gin might almost be offended, except Sanji grins and that’s enough to make Gin’s heart stop, leap about in his throat, and then splutter feebly from the depths of his stomach.
There’s this slight crinkle around Sanji’s eyes, and his smile is so broad and honest, and his teeth flash perfect white under the dim lighting, and Gin swallows and tries to force his own laugh, only it’s more of a choking noise.
“Good one,” Sanji snorts, chuckling slightly as he pours himself a drink, and Gin can feel himself sweating. He watches Sanji screw the top back onto the bottle and hand it to Usopp, and then take a measured sip, before smiling to himself, small and secret, staring down into the amber liquid.
There’s an awkward silence, one that appears to only be effecting Gin, somehow only made more obvious by the rhythmic pounding of the music. He’s never felt the need to talk just to fill a silence before, he’s never been one for talking at all, preferring to let his glare and his penchant for violence do the communicating. But now the silence unsettles him, as glaring as the measly few inches of air between Sanji’s shoulder and his own that seem to stretch for miles.
“I didn’t know this was that kind of bar,” he says in a rush, voice sounding strangled.
Sanji shoots a sideways glance, smile vanished. “What kind of bar?” he asks thinly, and Gin is starting to feel like he’s done something wrong.
“You know,” he mutters, wrist flailing uselessly in the air as he indicates the general bar around them and Sanji himself. “That kind of bar.”
Sanji’s eyes narrow. “What kind of bar?” he asks again, voice quiet, and Gin feels a icy shiver run down his spine.
“You know,” he repeats, because he sure as hell doesn’t. “A, uh, a guy bar. For guys. To dance.”
He thinks he might hear Usopp suck in a deep breath, but he can’t be sure.
“It isn’t,” Sanji hisses, leaning closer in a manner that could be threatening but only makes Gin want to close the last bit of distance between them. “I wouldn’t work here if it was.”
For a moment, Gin isn’t sure what’s going to happen first - Sanji spitting the insult so clearly on the tip of his tongue, or Gin lurching forward and finding another use for his mouth.
Instead Sanji jerks away, snatching up his glass and downing the remaining scotch, glaring at the wooden surface of the bar, and Gin thinks wistfully that he should have kept his own damn drink because his throat is suddenly dry and rough as sandpaper.
Unfortunately a quick glance down the bar confirms the old woman has already thrown it back and is watching him with an eerie combination of shrewdness and unfocused eyes.
Gin feels a flutter of air beside his hand, and looks back just in time to see a deep red silk tie land on the bar, so close that the most minute twitch of his fingers would lead to him stroking the fabric.
Sanji is talking, still sounding agitated. Usopp is responding, so Gin can assume that he’s not the one being addressed. The straw hat kid could have melted or exploded or turned to ice for all Gin is aware.
Because the tie, the tie, is lying right beside his hand. The tie that had coiled itself around Sanji’s throat. The tie he had slowly pulled loose from that slender neck like it hadn’t wanted to let go. The tie that had snaked and slipped through Sanji’s fingers like syrup.
The tie, and it’s hypnotic, the colour of blood and lust, and it seems to shimmer before him, to shiver with his every breath, calling to him, whispering to him, warm from the heat of Sanji’s body…
“Okay, see you later,” Usopp says, and Gin realises that Sanji is standing. Sanji is moving away, which is so, so wrong, and Gin can’t speak, can’t try to stop him, can only open and close his mouth as he watches Sanji walk away.
He can’t, no, and Gin has never needed anything so much in his entire life as he needs Sanji to stay.
Needs him to turn around, to come back, to smile at him again. Needs him to dance again, needs to see more of him.
The tie, his mind manages after a few false starts of spluttering and whimpering at him. He forgot his tie, Sanji forgot his tie, and Gin can give it back to him, maybe talk to him, start a conversation, a better conversation, maybe their fingers will brush, maybe Sanji will step a little closer, and the music begins to throb in Gin’s veins, and he’s going to do it, he has to, and he’s reaching for the tie.
Which isn’t there anymore.
Gin looks up, wide-eyed and panting, at the red material in Usopp’s hand.
“Forgot his tie,” Usopp is muttering distractedly. “I’ll give it back to him later.”
Gin isn’t thinking. Gin isn’t thinking, and Sanji isn’t come back, and he hears the shriek before he realises he’s moving.
*
It’s quite nice to be back outside. The evening air is cool and crisp and Gin hadn’t realised just how flushed his skin is.
Then the concrete rushes up to meet him.
He hits the ground face-first, disorientated and winded, and the most he can manage is to roll over onto his back, panting for breath.
“And stay out,” the bouncer snorts, sounding bored and unimpressed, before he stalks back into the building.
He can hear shouting through the not-quite closed door, but it’s only the sound of Sanji’s raised voice, angry and exasperated, that draws his attention.
“-The fuck? What’d you do that for, shithead?”
“He attacked Usopp,” comes the growled response.
“I could have kicked his ass,” Sanji snarls.
“It’s my job!” the bouncer snaps back.
Gin feels woozy and light-headed, for all the lack of alcohol in his evening. It’s as though time slipped away from him for a moment, and Gin has felt the exhilaration of battle before, has felt himself becoming caught up in the sick thrill of bones cracking all around him, but he’s never quite lost himself in such a way before.
He remembers the scrape of his barstool behind him, the clatter that followed, the weightlessness as he’d launched himself over the bar.
Beyond that? Nothing. He’s back to being a nobody. A nobody lying in the gutter outside a titty bar.
A nobody who has never had sex with a stripper.
A nobody who might just have witnessed the most erotic striptease ever performed on the Grand Line, even if it was performed by a man, and even if he did only take off his tie.
Which can’t be right, can’t be real, and reality feels like it’s trying to claw its way back to him.
Honestly, Gin’s starting to think that maybe the whole thing was a hallucination.
Right up until the redheaded manager leans out of the door, smiling widely. “Feel free to come back anytime,” she calls cheerily. Right until her eyes narrow and her voice drops an octave as she adds, “Bring money.”
The neon sign buzzes above him, the orange letters flickering slightly as she slams the door shut behind her.
Sequel: Asshole-Free
no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 03:31 (UTC)no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 12:46 (UTC)no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 03:59 (UTC)Poor Gin...but god...so sexy and perfect this story.
I am so glad you are back baby....
I seriously love you.
*Memories*
no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 12:48 (UTC)even if nobody really strips in this, so I guess I inherited the failure Sanji is lacking in this fic.no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 12:09 (UTC)Oh. My. God.
THIS FIC IS POSSIBLY THE MOST HORRENDOUS BLUEBALLING I HAVE EVER EXPERIENCED.
You fucked me until I was ready climax and then you pulled out.
FFFFFFUCK. I just. Wow.
I LOVE HOW NOTHING GETS RESOLVED AND I FEEL LIKE YOU JUST BROKE MY HEAD IN WITH A HAMMER.
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. Merry Christmas!
no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 12:51 (UTC)....Although I have now, just this second, decided that Gin's tonfa weapons are actually a representation of his blueballs, which is why he keeps trying to smack Sanji in the face with them on the Baratie. Wow, thanks for putting that image in my head. That whole fight suddenly just became about teabagging. Merry fucking Christmas to you too, you evil cow. D:
no subject
Date: 24/12/2008 12:54 (UTC)no subject
Date: 27/12/2008 10:41 (UTC)I WANT THAT TIE PLEASE.
And that reply to koztok...thanks. I needed that image. No, really.
no subject
Date: 27/12/2008 11:08 (UTC)Also, yeah, the Baratie arc is now ruined for me. Or made better, I can't decide.
no subject
Date: 27/12/2008 20:09 (UTC)reading some Gin/Sanji makes me all warm and happy!!
no subject
Date: 03/01/2009 20:34 (UTC)no subject
Date: 28/12/2008 05:21 (UTC)Seriously, you put Gin in a fic and I flip out, Gin/Sanji fic I spaz like nobody's business, but GIN IN A STRIP BAR WITH SANJI SHOWING?!?!?!? HOLY SHAMOLY, I HAVE NO WORDS! YOU! ARE! ... GAAAAAAAAAH!!!!
... dear lord, I have the urge to draw Gin strangling Ussop for that tie, now... *puts on to-do list*
no subject
Date: 03/01/2009 20:36 (UTC)I miss Gin, I want him to make a reappearance in canon. And you're very right, there isn't enough Gin fic in fandom, so I'm glad you enjoyed this one. ^___^
no subject
Date: 30/12/2008 23:30 (UTC)no subject
Date: 03/01/2009 20:37 (UTC)no subject
Date: 03/01/2009 22:16 (UTC)He was doing so good at the begining too! The female strippers liked him and he was all cool and swave and then BAM Sanji happens. Sanji is like, Gin's kyptonite to success-- but Gin doesn't notice it because he's all infatuated.
And I continue to love it. LOOOVE IT.
no subject
Date: 04/01/2009 03:46 (UTC)no subject
Date: 04/01/2009 06:06 (UTC)no subject
Date: 06/01/2009 00:15 (UTC)We need more of these fics. *ç*
no subject
Date: 02/05/2010 20:22 (UTC)