(One Piece) Asshole-Free

[salmon_pink]

Title: Asshole-Free
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Gin/Sanji
Rating: R
Words: 5370
Notes: AU. Sequel to Tassle-Free. For scribe_protra's Holiday Wishlist.
A/N: Oh look, it’s the sequel to the fic nobody wanted a sequel to! Yep, it’s a follow-up to Tassle-Free, and probably won’t make any sense without reading that first. scribe_protra wanted Gin fic for Christmas, and this was the idea that took hold and refused to gracefully roll over and die.
Summary: Gin and his blue balls return to Tangerine Tits. Presumably because he's a masochist.



It’s nearly a whole forty-eight hours before Gin decides to revisit Tangerine Tits. Most of this time is spent trying to convince himself that he must have been ill, since that seems to be the only explanation for his reaction to Sanji. Unfortunately, his own theories fall a little flat when he remembers he hasn’t been ill in his entire life. Still, that means he doesn’t really know what ‘ill’ feels like, so it can’t be ruled out that illness might manifest itself in a fierce desire for leggy blonde men with good taste in ties.

Eventually he stumbles upon, or rather drags himself towards a solution. One that involves returning to the bar, so that he can see Sanji again, so that he can prove that it was a one-off, so he can prove that the Grand Line hasn’t finally got to him and he hasn’t lost his mind.

The only problem that he can see is actually a pretty big problem - he got himself kicked out. Titty bars don’t particularly like readmitting patrons they know will cause trouble. Still, the manager herself had told him he was welcome back, but there’d been the solid stipulation that he bring money.

Gin doesn’t really have much money. Any that they’d managed to save after the fleet was wiped out has been needed to repair Don Krieg’s ship.

Still, that’s a problem easily fixed, and an evening of lurking in dark alleys, tonfa resting impatiently at his sides as he listens for victims, lands him a healthy amount of beri. Not his usual style, but he’s never really been out for money before, usually fighting for the prestige of the Krieg pirates. He’s also not used to being quite so discreet, but the shipwrights on the island apparently have a reputation of their own, and Gin doesn’t want any trouble that might get in the way of his plan.

Not that there is much of a plan beyond ‘see Sanji again’, but it’s all Gin has to work with. Planning has never been his strongpoint.

By the time his pockets are satisfyingly weighed down, it’s morning and probably not a good time to be visiting strip clubs. Even if they were open, he doubts they’d be showing their best dancers before noon. And Sanji must be one of their best dancers, because Gin can’t imagine anyone else, male or female, able to walk with that sinuous grace, every movement sexual and enticing, eyes dark and inviting…

Gin manages to snap himself out of those thoughts mere seconds before he steps straight off the path and into a canal. He’s still adjusting to the city - it’s a little jarring to spend so much time at sea, only to finally alight at an island and discover it’s mostly made up of water.

Gin’s never been one to believe in serendipity, fateful meetings that can change a person’s entire life and the way they view the world, but he has to hand it to destiny - if he weren’t standing with one foot hovering over the canal, trying to regain his bearings, he might not have noticed the kid with the straw hat merrily strolling along the opposite bank, carrying an armful of papers.

Gin takes a moment to just gawk, watching the kid, definitely the kid from Tangerine Tits, no mistaking that hat and inane smile, slapping up fliers on market stalls as he passes, apparently oblivious to the stall owners muttering resentfully and trying futilely to block their walls.

Gin can’t make out what’s written, but he can definitely see a photo of a tangerine, and he can see parents trying to stop their children from reading the words, so that’s pretty much all he needs to know.

He walks along the bank, trying not to rush too much, trying to keep a steady pace. One of the most frustrating things about the island is definitely the lack of bridges, the layout apparently designed to be easier for those on the water than those on foot. He has to duck back into a smaller passage, losing sight of the straw hat kid in doing so, but the fliers will be waiting, and he knows there’s a bridge just ahead, because he mugged someone there a few hours ago.

He keeps his head down, prays no victims recognise him, and crosses as casually as possible.

The fliers aren’t there.

There are corners of paper, tape marks, but no fliers.

On every single market stall.

Gin rounds on the nearest person.

“You tore them down,” he says in what he feels is a measured and calm manner, but the burly looking man he addresses still shrinks back in fear.

“W-what?” comes the meek response, and Gin exhales sharply through his nose and edges closer.

“You. Tore. Down. The fliers,” he repeats with the last of his patience.

“For that bar?” the man asks shakily, and cowers again at Gin’s curt nod. “No, I didn’t. They did.”

He points a unsteady finger towards two retreating figures. One is a tall man in a long, deep-red trench coat, the other a blonde woman in a short dress covered in what appears to be lemon slices. Gin has to squint a little to see, but, sure enough, the man appears to ripping down the fliers as they pass, handing them to the woman who stuffs them into a large white handbag.

“They always do this,” the trembling man at Gin’s side continues. “Every week that kid puts up fliers, and every week those two follow him and rip them down.”

Authority, maybe Marine-sanctioned, Gin thinks, teeth grinding together. Makes sense that there’d be someone patrolling the area, and that they’d consider posters for a strip club to be obscene or an eyesore. It’d be all too easy to just go after them, to attack them, to take one of the damn fliers and be done with it, but he already knows he can’t. Not when they need the ship repaired, not when he’s spent the night attacking people and stealing whatever money they had on their persons.

Tactics, sneak attacks, disguises and traps, that’s all Krieg’s forte. All Gin can settle for is finding a way to get ahead of the straw hat kid.

He hears the stall owner sink to his knees in relief as he begins to jog away.

Unfortunately, the city appears to be against him. He runs through alleys and marketplaces, trying to be inconspicuous, except that everyone and their elderly grandmother seems determined to get in his way. A few times he has to dive behind whatever cover he can find when the red-coat man and lemon-dress woman turn in his direction. He feels more than a little ridiculous, especially when he has to hide behind a rather large woman with bushy red hair and about fifty kids, and even more so when she starts trying to hit him with a rolling pin she apparently carries around for such occasions.

Every time he starts to wonder if it’s worth it, an image of Sanji’s hips rolling to an imaginary rhythm, the fabric of his trousers shifting, a slither of skin visible just above his belt, shimmers in his mind and he finds himself running a little faster.

Fortunately, the straw hat kid is easy to track, even if he does seem to be following a path that bears no resemblance to logic. He whistles as he goes, an offbeat tune that’s almost painful to listen to, and waves hello to nearly everyone, even if they don’t appear to know him.

By the time Gin catches up, he’s drenched in sweat and can’t catch his breath. He manages to overtake him, running along the opposite bank and crossing yet another crowded bridge, stopping at the corner of the street the straw hat kid is happily making his way down.

Only, now he’s there, he’s not really sure what to do. He can’t risk letting the two people following the kid see him take a flier, but he can’t outright ask for one. The straw hat kid might recognise him, remember him starting that fight he doesn’t really remember himself, and refuse him a flier. Or even call for help, try to report Gin as a violent criminal, and then the ship will never get repaired.

Gin’s starting to panic, which isn’t good, because his usual reaction to anything like panic is to lash out, and while smashing the kid’s head in with his tonfa and helping himself to a flier has its appeal, it isn’t going to help him keep a low profile, nor get back inside Tangerine Tits.

The kid’s almost level with him.

Gin clears his throat and tries to will himself to look different, somehow.

“Excuse me,” he says in a voice that’s trying for classy and jovial but comes out strained. “Could I have one of tho-”

Slap, and Gin lurches backwards as the world goes white.

The straw hat kid’s whistling continues past him, growing quieter as he moves away.

Gin reaches up and tugs down the flier the kid just stuck to his forehead.

Any urge to follow the kid and rip him apart in revenge is dampened by the realisation that, yes, he has a flier.

He retreats into the nearest alley, the paper shoved awkwardly under his t-shirt, and waits for the red-coat man and lemon-dress woman to pass before he pulls it out to examine.

The first name he notices is ‘the Princess’, and for a moment he almost chokes, wondering if that’s supposed to be Sanji’s stage name, and wondering if he hates it or secretly likes it, and wondering what the fuck is wrong with his brain for even considering the possibility. Then he takes another moment to wonder if it’s the stage name for that redheaded manager, and it’s a nice mental image but, disturbingly enough, she can’t compare to the way Sanji arches his back and tilts back his head, and Gin has to snap himself out of it when the words start to turn red and blur across the page.

‘The Princess’ is performing tomorrow.

‘Mr. Prince’ is performing that night.

Gin doesn’t believe in serendipity, but he’s starting to think it might just believe in him.

*

Gin walks through the door to Tangerine Tits as nonchalantly as possible at a carefully planned ten minutes before Sanji’s first set.

He already has a few folded banknotes in his hand in case the bouncer decides to stop him, but apparently security has the night off. Instead of the green-haired guy with the scowl, there’s what appears to be a small, fuzzy plush toy wearing a pink hat and a miniature suit sat beside the door.

A small, fuzzy plush toy that turns to him and smiles, and Gin swears that for a moment its eyes actually sparkle.

He walks hurriedly away.

It’s busier than before, since there are actual customers besides the old woman at the bar. She’s once again nursing a pint of beer, only this time she’s not dozing and instead laughing uproariously at something the straw hat kid, sat cross-legged on the bar in front of her, has apparently said, which has him pouting and whining at her in response.

Gin ducks his head and moves further down the bar, glad for the diversion.

No bouncer. Preoccupied straw hat kid. It’s going better than he’d hoped.

Until the barman turns around to take his order, and Gin watches with a sense of impending doom as Usopp’s eyes widen, his mouth falls open, and he begins to tremble.

Yeah, there’s a reason Gin leaves the planning to Krieg.

Usopp splutters for a moment, eyes darting to the door and back, before he makes an elaborate dive behind the bar. Gin can hear him muttering to himself as he crawls towards the door to the backroom, even if the bottles and glasses that fall noisily every time he bashes against the shelves didn’t give away his progress.

Less than a minute later, the manager storms out and fixes him with a death glare that would make a lesser man keel over from fright.

“Did you bring money?” she asks curtly, staring at him menacingly over the top of her glasses.

Gin dutifully holds up the wad of beri, hoping she doesn’t notice the bloodstains.

“Fine,” she says, before turning to yell into the backroom. “Usopp, get out here and do your job!”

“I can’t!” comes the wailed response. “I’ve just been struck down with a severe bout of ‘Can’t-Serve-This-Customer-itis’.”

The manager rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her ample chest. “Well, what do you want then?” she snaps, and it takes a moment for Gin to realise she’s talking to him.

“A double scotch,” he answers gruffly, thinking longingly of the way Sanji’s throat had moved as he’d downed the same drink.

A glass slamming down in front of him and a barked price snaps him out of the daydream.

“That’s more than triple what it cost last time,” he growls suspiciously.

“Yes, and last time you broke several glasses and a decanter.”

Gin hands over the beri begrudgingly, and the manager smirks and waves over her shoulder as she walks away.

Well, at least he hasn’t been refused service or escorted outside.

Gin takes a seat at a table as far across the room from the bar as possible. Usopp doesn’t seem like a bad kid, and Gin doesn’t necessarily want to make his job harder or anything. And, of course, the table gives him an impressive view of the stage area, with only a few minutes to go before Sanji’s performance begins.

Things are going well.

Until he realises there’s something hovering near his elbow.

Gin looks over, and then looks down.

The plush toy is staring up at him.

“Usopp says you’re trouble,” the fuzzy little creature informs him.

Gin glances around to see if anyone else is as disturbed as him to realise the thing can talk.

“So I’m going to keep an eye on you,” the creature informs him, squinting up at him.

Gin realises it’s trying to glare. It’s oddly endearing.

And then the lights dim, and Gin suddenly couldn’t care less if he has an audience or not.

A single spotlight bursts into life amongst the gloom, perfectly framing the stage.

Gin shifts a little in his seat.

A low and sultry beat begins to rumble from the speakers, slow and steady and completely at odds with Gin’s thundering pulse as Sanji steps out onto the stage.

A murmur spreads through the room, the scattered customers as one inhaling their breath. The old woman at the bar whistles.

Gin barely hears it.

This isn’t a practice, a walkthrough, a trial. This is it, this is professional, this is Sanji, and that is an impressive amount of leather.

Gin’s never really appreciated leather before, but he’ll probably never be able to look at a couch in the same way.

There’s leather encasing Sanji’s legs, and they’re somehow even longer than Gin remembers. Sleek and slender, but with a shape that hints at the muscle there, wrapped up in soft black fabric that winks as it catches the light. There’s a leather shirt too, sleeveless, a large silver zipper down the front, and on anyone else it might just look ridiculous, but on Sanji it looks better than sex, better than violence, better than crushing his enemies. And, finally, there’s a single strip of black leather encircling Sanji’s throat, and Gin had thought that no item of clothing could leave him panting with the same intensity as that blood-red tie, but he doesn’t mind being proven wrong.

Sanji begins to walk down the runway, practically strutting, arrogance a teasing invitation. Utterly in control, effortlessly commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Gin wants to take that arrogance, to bask in it, to strip it away, to tear at Sanji and hurt and bruise and ravish and taste until there’s nothing between them but sex and sweat and need. So close, almost within reach, and Gin’s eyes follow him as if it’s painful to look away, watching the leather as it clings to the curve of his ass. And then Sanji bends those perfect legs, leather pulled even tighter, and Gin’s mouth is dry as Sanji leans forward, and for one long and incredible moment, Gin just knows Sanji is leaning towards him…

And then Sanji’s eyes fall on the pretty brunette at the next table, smiling at her, and Gin can see the blush blooming across her face as Sanji murmurs something to her, too quiet to hear. And he can feel the sick and deafening rage bubbling within him again, the same anger that he inadvertently turned on Usopp, and his mind quickly supplies him with a dozen different ways he could break the brunette in two.

Until she ducks her head, bites her lip and reaches up, her finger hooking in the silver hoop at the top of the zipper on Sanji’s shirt. Any urge to kill is quickly lost in the rush of blood and hormones as Sanji leans back and slowly stands, legs straightening beneath him as he uncoils, and the zipper is obediently tugged down, revealing a sculpted torso. The now familiar fantasies creep back, only more so, revelling in the new ammunition. Gin can imagine the hitch of Sanji’s breath as he licks along the curves of those defined muscles, fingers snaking up to pinch unforgivingly at exposed nipples, feeling Sanji arch beneath him, hearing the juddering little whine that burns at his ears as Sanji begs for more.

The shirt slides down Sanji’s arms and lands on the stage, and Gin has to fight the desire to leap from his seat and grab for it, to bury his face in it and inhale as deeply as his lungs will allow.

Sanji raises his arms, hips swinging slowly to the beat, hands burying in his hair, tousled and wanton, and Gin can’t even remember what he was trying to prove by coming back, because all he knows is Sanji, all he needs is Sanji, all he sees is Sanji.

Except that’s not all he sees, because something within him, something like instinct and familiarity, tells him to turn towards the door.

It’s like being hit by a bucket of cold water. A bucket of cold water and knives, and maybe a few bullets for good measure.

Don Krieg is standing in the doorway, oversized bulk of him taking up far too much room as he sneers at the stage.

Gin glances back at Sanji as if he has no choice, as if commanded, as if his eyes can’t bear to be looking anywhere else, never mind that he’s been looking to Krieg and nobody but Krieg for so long he can’t remember a time before the man dictated every moment of his life.

Sanji is standing perfectly still, the music and the customers ignored as all of his focus gravitates towards Krieg, towards the threat of him, lights bouncing off of Krieg’s armour like a flattened mirror ball. There’s no tension to Sanji’s shoulders, to his posture, thumbs hooked in the unused belt loops of his trousers in the absence of pockets to shove his hands into. He stares levelly back at Krieg, face impassive but there’s something about his gaze that looks too much like a warning. Gin wants to jump up, to stop him, to drag him away, because he knows that Krieg has only ever seen warnings as an invitation, but it’s hard to leap valiantly from his table when all of his blood is concentrated between his legs, captivated by the steel behind Sanji’s eyes.

Krieg takes a step forward, further into the room. A few customers at a nearby table quietly stand and begin to edge away.

Sanji remains motionless on the stage.

Gin fidgets uncomfortably in his seat, wishing the revelation that his Captain has just effectively caught him watching a male strip show would at least somewhat diminish his straining erection.

“Is this where you tell me you don’t want any trouble?” Krieg leers, and his voice echoes off the walls, teeth glinting yellow beneath his sneer.

Sanji exhales softly, a quiet little snort, and his lips quirk, but there’s no humour there, just patience and ice and the tantalising taste of arrogance. Gin thinks desperately of Sanji’s smile, the real smile, the one with no walls and no secrets, the one that makes him look younger and like he could almost, once upon time, have been innocent.

Gin can’t decide which smile he prefers.

Krieg takes another step forward, and Gin can recognise that slightly manic look in his eyes. He’s seen it at the end of too many battles, carved into his memories, into the backs of his eyelids. Before, in East Blue, it was the look of restlessness, of recklessness. Another fight won easily, another Marine fleet destroyed, another village burned to the ground, and Krieg would be wound tight enough to just snap, lashing out and as close as Gin had ever seen him to happiness, simmering with the need to crush but with nothing else within reach. After entering the Grand Line, after the defeats and the realisations and the breakdowns the crew don’t talk about, it’s a look of frustration and anger. It’s the need to prove himself, push himself and his crew to the edge, but always with just that sliver of fear of what they might see at the precipice. What they might discover, what can’t be taken back, all the failures waiting for them, and Krieg has never accepted embarrassment, has tried to kill it like a flesh and blood enemy every time it’s threatened to catch up with him.

Krieg is ready to destroy something, simply to prove he can, and Gin isn’t sure why it’s a titty bar in a backend alley, but that look on Krieg’s face has never been followed by rational thought.

Slowly, leisurely, Sanji takes a step forward, feet lining up with the very edge of the stage. Patrons at every table now are making their way towards doors, corners, hiding places. A few, finding themselves directly caught between Sanji’s level grin and Krieg’s manic sneer, have dropped to their hands and knees, perhaps wisely, to crawl away.

Sanji’s head tilts up, the added height of the stage allowing him to stare down at Krieg along the line of his nose, and his eyes narrow, spark and flint, as he drawls, “We don’t want any trouble.”

Krieg’s lips pull back over a roar, cape thrown back to reveal the guns still left after their latest required budget cut - selling his weapons was always a last resort for Krieg, but they’d had little choice after losing the fleet. They’re still an impressive sight, polished metal gleaming as each barrel points above Sanji’s head.

Everything happens in slow-motion.

The sound of it is deafening, blasts echoing off the walls. Gin finally finds his ability to move and uses it to drop to the floor. Sanji leaps backwards from the stage. Plaster falls as the ceiling gives way above the runway.

There’s dust everywhere, flashing multicoloured under the flare of the bar’s different lights. Gin can’t see a thing, but the ringing in his ears begins to fade out until he can make out individual voices.

“We need a bouncer, we need a bouncer!” That’s the little fuzzy plush creature, judging by the high voice.

“My ceiling! You’re gonna pay for that! Go get him, Usopp!” That’s the manager, screaming from the direction of the bar.

“M-m-me? What don’t you go after him?” Definitely Usopp’s indignant voice.

“Argh, I’m the bouncer!” The fluffy creature again, who must be running around in circles since his voice seems to be coming from all over the place.

“Son of a -” That irritated drawl could only be Sanji’s, and Gin’s crawling closer instantly, practically sliding along the floor like a snake with a single-minded purpose - reach Sanji, must reach Sanji.

“We have a strict ‘No Asshole’ policy!” The manager sounds riled up enough to take down Krieg on her own. “Why does nobody ever pay attention to the ‘No Asshole’ policy?!”

“N-Nami, don’t-”

“Chopper, do something!”

Gin hears the click of tiny hooves as the fluffy creature goes sprinting past him towards Krieg. Probably heading straight to his own death, but Gin doesn’t care. Reach Sanji, must reach Sanji.

“Chopper, wait!” Sanji yells, rolling over to get his legs beneath him, and he’s going after the plush toy, going after Krieg, and Gin can’t allow that. Won’t let Sanji get hurt, won’t let that happen, and he fiercely insists to himself that it’s only Sanji’s safety he’s thinking of when he lurches up and throws himself at the blonde’s back.

All to protect Sanji, except that surprised little noise Sanji makes as Gin’s weight throws him back to the floor makes Gin’s cock throb.

Oh God, heat and skin and somehow his face ends up pressed against the back of Sanji’s neck. This must be what insanity smells like, leather and sweat and smoke and perfection.

They stay like that for an eternity. It must be an eternity, because time stops, the world ceases to spin, and Gin finally knows happiness.

He’d been aware there’s a sense of power to the way Sanji moves, but now he suddenly has a hand on Sanji’s thigh, doesn’t even know how it happened, the proof of that power literally within his grasp. Feeling the firmness of the muscle there, encased in tight black leather but still strong as marble, and he wants to slide his hand higher, wants to trace tendons and warmth until he can get a grip on that incredible ass. Draped awkwardly against Sanji’s back, but if he just shifts, just a little, then he’ll be able to feel it - his crotch pressed against the swell of Sanji’s backside, the fantasy that has followed him since it first skittered into his feverish mind. Just the slightest shift of his hips and he’ll have it, that sensation, that feeling. Be able to grind against the body trapped beneath him, and he wants it, wants to hear that shocked little noise again, wants to hear all the noises he can force from Sanji’s throat. Whimpers and groans and curse words and pleas, all for him, all for Gin, wants to hear them muffled as he devours Sanji’s mouth, as he uses it, thrusts inside it, heat and lips parted just for him. One tiny shift of his body and he’ll have all that, he knows it, panting and dizzy and so turned on he’s forgotten how to blink.

An elbow jabs painfully into Gin’s stomach, forcing a moan from his parched mouth that sounds far too aroused considering he just lost all the air in his lungs, and Sanji shrugs off his weight as if it’s nothing at all.

Sanji rolls easily on to his feet, leaving Gin a crumpled ball on the floor. If Gin had words, he’d use them to warn Sanji to come back, to stay away from Krieg. Or maybe he’d beg to taste the skin of Sanji’s stomach, he isn’t sure.

Apparently that eternity barely lasted a second, because Krieg’s still roaring and occasionally firing at the rapidly crumbling ceiling, the manager is still screaming with rage, and the fuzzy creature is staring up at Krieg with a fierce expression.

Gin is beyond caring, floating above his body as he watches the chaos around him. He’s experienced heaven, felt Sanji beneath him, and he licks his lips, shudders forcefully as he tastes a trace of Sanji’s sweat on his tongue.

“You get one warning!” the plush toy announces like he’s been rehearsing the speech for weeks. “And then yo-”

He doesn’t get to finish, Krieg sweeping out one huge arm to swat the creature away. Gin watches the little plush sail across the room, hears Sanji’s startled shout as he dives to catch it. Krieg is laughing, and Gin knows that laugh, knows that anybody who walks out of the bar alive should count themselves lucky. Krieg is gone, ready to rip the entire world apart, just to feel it break in his hands. Nothing can stop him, nothing, and Gin wouldn’t try even if he could.

He can taste Sanji, taste him, and he wonders if anybody would care if he just shoved his hand down his trousers and started jerking off while the building collapsed around him.

It doesn’t matter what happens now, how could anything ever matter again? Not after feeling his body pressed against Sanji’s own.

“L-Luffy!”

Gin rolls his head lazily, dazed and blissed-out. It’s as if the world has taken on a pink hue, which could just be the club lighting, but Gin prefers to think of it as the universe celebrating on Gin’s behalf. The straw hat kid is standing on the bar, feet apart, fists clenched, head bowed.

“Don’t touch my nakama,” the kid murmurs, and his voice is quiet, yet it’s somehow strong enough that Krieg turns toward him. Gin catches a glimpse of Krieg’s manic sneer, and knows the straw hat kid is dead.

He’s never really asked for much from Krieg before, but he wants to ask a favour now. Wants Krieg to spare Sanji, needs him to, is shocked by how much he needs it. He can take Sanji away from all this, rescue him, keep Sanji to himself, and then life will be perfect. Nevermind everything they’ve been through since entering Grand Line, the destruction and the humiliation and the defeat. If the universe lets him have Sanji, he’ll forgive it all. It’ll be worth it, and somehow he just knows that it will happen. Serendipity, because hasn’t destiny been smiling on him all day? He was meant to find Sanji, Krieg was meant to destroy this bar, and they’re all meant to sail away together, and maybe Gin is a little winded from that blow to the solar plexus, maybe he’s hovering a little too close to losing consciousness, but it doesn’t matter.

Life is going to be good again.

Krieg is still cackling, weird choking gurgle of anger disguised as laughter, and the kid looks up from under the brim of his hat.

Gin feels his temples burn as he instinctively tries to take a deep breath.

He didn’t think the idiot kid was capable of an expression like that, and the very air seems to shimmer with the intensity of his anger.

Gin has a horrible premonition that the universe has decided that Gin has had his taste of happiness, or more specifically Sanji’s skin, and now it’s planning to right itself.

If he could speak, he’d warn Don Krieg, but he can’t, and Krieg wouldn’t listen anyway.

The fist flies across the room, and Gin must be losing it, because there’s no way any human’s arm could stretch like that.

The crack of it connecting with Krieg’s jaw makes the walls shake.

One punch, one single fucking punch, and Krieg staggers and Gin realises just like that. It’s over, his happiness is over, and he watches Krieg stumble backwards, stumble towards him.

Gin can’t move. Gin really, really wishes he could move.

Unfortunately, all he can do is watch as Krieg lurches backwards like a drunken man, head rolling back, shoulders slumping as he begins to fall. His shadow rolls over Gin’s sprawled form, and Gin glances towards Sanji, towards his light, his torture, his need and his everything.

Sanji isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to him. He has the plush toy held in his arms and he’s casually strolling towards the bar as if the fight is already over, as if Krieg is already on the ground.

And then Krieg is, his huge armour-clad body heavily crashing down directly on to Gin.

Gin wishes he could say everything instantly turns black, but there’s a lot of pain before that happens.