Salmon Pink (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
salmon_pink) wrote2007-06-23 12:07 am
salmon_pink) wrote2007-06-23 12:07 am
(One Piece) Super Ego
Title: Super Ego
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Gin/Sanji
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1876
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shinsei_kitsune's request at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sanji_is_a_slut.
Summary: Near-death experience. Maybe. Near-something experience.
His first clue that he might be hallucinating is when the blonde chef from the Baratie leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. Just like that, just like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Gin’s hand flies to his face, and he doesn’t even notice the way he manages to smear blood over his cheek as he traces the invisible sensation of lips and heat. Doesn’t notice it until Sanji rolls his eyes and produces a frilly pink handkerchief from nowhere and wipes the stain away.
“So messy,” Sanji giggles and, yeah, Gin’s hallucinating, because the real Sanji would never giggle, and he certainly wouldn’t be fluttering his eyelashes like the vision in front of him.
“Am I dead?” Gin asks. The last thing he remembers is that sword flying towards his face, so at least he can be proud he died in battle.
Except Sanji’s eyes fly wide, his hands cover his mouth, and he might just be trembling. Pale and looking like he’s about to cry, and it’s only complete and utter shock that stops Gin from blocking when the other man lunges towards him.
And then he has an armful of quivering blonde. “How could you even say that?” Sanji wails into his shoulder.
Gin looks around for help, but there’s nothing but endless white. So he settles for awkwardly patting Sanji on the shoulder. “There there,” he mutters because it seems like the right thing to say.
Sanji sniffles against his neck and clings to him. Gin waits patiently for the shaking to subside.
“So, seriously, am I dead?”
*
Sanji sets the china cup down in front of him, and stands back with his hands clasped in front of him. Gin glances down at the steaming, sweetly scented tea, then back up at Sanji, who stares at him expectantly.
He sighs and lifts the cup to his lips.
He can’t taste it. He can’t even feel the heat against his tongue.
“It’s delicious,” Gin lies, and watches the grin that spreads across Sanji’s face. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the air around him was sparkling.
Not that he’d put anything past this strange place. The tiny wooden house had appeared out of nowhere before them; one moment he’d been looking at white space, then he’d made the mistake of blinking, and Sanji had been holding the door open for him.
“What would you like to eat?” Sanji asks, gesturing to the rest of the kitchen, which seems to change shape every time Gin looks at it. “I’ll make you your very favourite food, all you have to do is ask.”
“I want to know if I’m dead,” Gin says, voice level.
Sanji sighs and flops down at the table opposite Gin. He reaches into the breast pocket of his shirt and fishes out a packet of cigarettes. Gin watches silently as he brings one to his lips, cupping his hand over the lighter before taking a deep drag.
Gin instantly feels more comfortable.
“I don’t get it,” Sanji mutters. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Gin frowns at him. “Why would I want to be dead?”
“Who said you were dead?” Sanji grumbles around the cigarette.
“What is this?” Gin asks patiently. “What should I want?”
“This,” Sanji snaps, gesturing around them with the cigarette. “I’m here, I’m looking after you. No need to run around after that fake Admiral anymore, no need to ever worry about starving ever again.”
Gin stares around them at the kitchen, which has changed shape again, and has to fight down the feeling of being offended. “I don’t need looking after,” he states thinly. “Why would you even think that?”
“Because it’s what you want,” Sanji explains as if talking to a child. “That’s why I’m here, after all. You want me to take care of you.”
Gin can feel a headache coming.
“Am I dead? Just tell me already,” he moans, head dropping into his hands.
“Shut up about that, would you? Look,” Sanji punctuates by pointing the cigarette at him. “When you think about me, you’re happy. Even Krieg notices it, that’s why he tries to keep you distracted by giving you shit to kill. And your main memories of me revolve me feeding you and looking out for you, right?”
Gin frowns and doesn’t answer.
“So, naturally, it stands to reason that you want me to look after you. That’s what makes you happy,” Sanji finishes, smug smile tugging at his mouth. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah.” His voice raises into something far too feminine. “What would you like to eat? I’ll make you anything.”
Gin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wait, are you saying you’re my subconscious?”
“I suppose that’s better than constantly asking if you’re dead,” Sanji shrugs, and he sounds like himself again.
Gin places his hands on the table in front of him and bows his head slightly. He has to close his eyes against all of it, can’t concentrate with the shifting kitchen and the endless white and the subservient poses Sanji keeps striking.
“I don’t need you to look after me,” he growls. “If I’m happy when I think about you, maybe it’s nothing to do with the food, maybe it’s to do with me.” Because that feels right, that feels like the truth. His time at the Baratie opened his eyes to his own state, his own loyalties and his own way of thinking, and Sanji’s presence may have helped that but it wasn’t the only factor. It wasn’t all about Sanji.
But Sanji doesn’t let him finish. He hears the shift of fabric as Sanji stands, and opens his eyes to see Sanji stub out his cigarette on an ashtray that hadn’t existed moments before.
“Okay, I get it,” he murmurs, and there’s a dangerous edge to his voice as he stalks closer. “You don’t want me to look after you.” He saunters around the table, and Gin watches him through narrowed eyes. And then he forgets to breathe as one of those endlessly long legs swings over his thighs.
“You just want me,” Sanji purrs, looking down at him through heated eyes.
Gin wonders when his subconscious got so fucked up.
Sanji’s lips are hard against his own, and they tingle like nicotine and everything else that’s bad for you but utterly addictive. Gin makes a noise that he never thought he’d hear himself make, something high and confused, and his arms flail as they try to grab the edge of the table but it’s too late.
It doesn’t hurt when he falls on his back on the floor, although Sanji’s weight landing on top of him is still somewhat jarring.
Sanji’s hands are everywhere at once, gripping at his biceps, tugging at his clothes, angling his head for a better angle, deeper, wet tongues and heat. Taking the time to tug at each earring, and if Gin weren’t entirely convinced that his mind was already cracked and broken, that would be the thing to do it.
His own hands grab for Sanji’s wrists, try to pry them away from his body, but Sanji just whines into his mouth. Gasps and bites at his bottom lip, legs tangling around Gin’s own, and Gin distantly tries to remember if the Sanji he met on the Baratie had ever exhibited any signs of being able to writhe like a porn star.
He jerks his head to the side, and he’s panting like he’s run a marathon, or just faced Pearl in one of his moods. And Sanji starts licking at his neck, kissing along his jaw, nosing and rubbing against the stubble there and making these noises that make Gin wish that maybe he was dead after all.
“If you’re my subconscious,” Gin gasps, and he sounds so strained to his own ears. “Does that make this masturbation, or what?”
Sanji laughs against his throat, and his breath is hot enough to burn. “Just go with it,” comes the response.
Gin wishes he could, and doesn’t quite understand why. Really wishes he could when Sanji rolls his hips, and it takes more effort than it should to roll the slighter body off of him and stumble to his feet.
“Am I dead?” he asks again, voice cracking.
“No,” Sanji snaps, pulling himself upright and smoothing down the creases in his jacket. “But if you don’t drop your trousers in the next thirty seconds, you’re gonna wish you were!”
Gin takes a step back, before it sinks in. “I’m really not dead?”
Sanji crosses his arms and looks slightly petulant. “No, you’re not. And we don’t have much time left here, so if you’re going to have any epiphanies about me and your sexuality, we better get down to business.”
“Epiphanies?” Gin asks cautiously, watching Sanji loosen his tie.
“Yes, dumbfuck!” Sanji barks. “You got hit on the head, and you’re going to wake up soon.”
Gin glances around them. The kitchen, the house, it’s all disappeared. The endless white seems off, somehow. It’s closer to beige, or something.
“Eggshell,” Sanji supplies helpfully, then raises his hands defensively when Gin turns to glare.
“Why are you here? Why not Krieg, or someone else?” he demands.
“You want to have sexual fantasies about Krieg?” Sanji splutters, wrinkling his nose in a way that Gin does not find cute.
“I heard that,” Sanji grins smugly, tapping his nose. Gin glowers.
“I don’t want to have sexual fantasies about anyone!” he bellows, and raises a hand before Sanji can interrupt again. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I want to know why it’s you that’s here. I haven’t seen you in months.”
The world around them slowly turns a darker shade of grey.
Sanji frowns, and steps towards him, and when their eyes meet, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “Because you haven’t stopped thinking about me,” he says quietly. “Because you can’t admit it, even to yourself. Because, no matter what you claim, you do want me.”
Gin gapes.
“Or maybe,” Sanji says with a shrug and a smile. “Maybe it’s all just circumstantial.”
Gin snaps. “Fine, I don’t care if I’m dead or having an epiphany or what! I just want you to act like yourself and not some sex-crazed housewife, all right?”
“Myself?” Sanji whispers.
“Yes!” Gin shouts.
Sanji kicks him in the head, and everything goes black.
*
“So messy,” Sanji scoffs, glancing around at the carnage that surrounds them.
“Whatever,” Zoro shrugs, sliding Wadou back into her sheath. He toes the crumpled body of the swordsman who’d been boasting about his skills to anyone who’d listen. “Not even a challenge.”
He steps back, and almost trips over the fallen body. He only vaguely remembers the hilt colliding with something as he’d stepped into the brawl, but he can guess from the rapidly forming bruise just underneath the bandana that he’d managed to knock the guy out with the force of the blow.
“Hey, does he look familiar to you?” he grunts. When he looks up, though, Sanji’s already halfway across the courtyard.
“C’mon, we don’t have time for this, we’ve kept Nami-san waiting long enough,” he calls back.
Zoro frowns and follows, stepping on Gin’s chest as he goes.
Fandom: One Piece
Pairing: Gin/Sanji
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1876
Notes: For
shinsei_kitsune's request at sanji_is_a_slut.Summary: Near-death experience. Maybe. Near-something experience.
His first clue that he might be hallucinating is when the blonde chef from the Baratie leans forward and kisses him on the cheek. Just like that, just like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Gin’s hand flies to his face, and he doesn’t even notice the way he manages to smear blood over his cheek as he traces the invisible sensation of lips and heat. Doesn’t notice it until Sanji rolls his eyes and produces a frilly pink handkerchief from nowhere and wipes the stain away.
“So messy,” Sanji giggles and, yeah, Gin’s hallucinating, because the real Sanji would never giggle, and he certainly wouldn’t be fluttering his eyelashes like the vision in front of him.
“Am I dead?” Gin asks. The last thing he remembers is that sword flying towards his face, so at least he can be proud he died in battle.
Except Sanji’s eyes fly wide, his hands cover his mouth, and he might just be trembling. Pale and looking like he’s about to cry, and it’s only complete and utter shock that stops Gin from blocking when the other man lunges towards him.
And then he has an armful of quivering blonde. “How could you even say that?” Sanji wails into his shoulder.
Gin looks around for help, but there’s nothing but endless white. So he settles for awkwardly patting Sanji on the shoulder. “There there,” he mutters because it seems like the right thing to say.
Sanji sniffles against his neck and clings to him. Gin waits patiently for the shaking to subside.
“So, seriously, am I dead?”
*
Sanji sets the china cup down in front of him, and stands back with his hands clasped in front of him. Gin glances down at the steaming, sweetly scented tea, then back up at Sanji, who stares at him expectantly.
He sighs and lifts the cup to his lips.
He can’t taste it. He can’t even feel the heat against his tongue.
“It’s delicious,” Gin lies, and watches the grin that spreads across Sanji’s face. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the air around him was sparkling.
Not that he’d put anything past this strange place. The tiny wooden house had appeared out of nowhere before them; one moment he’d been looking at white space, then he’d made the mistake of blinking, and Sanji had been holding the door open for him.
“What would you like to eat?” Sanji asks, gesturing to the rest of the kitchen, which seems to change shape every time Gin looks at it. “I’ll make you your very favourite food, all you have to do is ask.”
“I want to know if I’m dead,” Gin says, voice level.
Sanji sighs and flops down at the table opposite Gin. He reaches into the breast pocket of his shirt and fishes out a packet of cigarettes. Gin watches silently as he brings one to his lips, cupping his hand over the lighter before taking a deep drag.
Gin instantly feels more comfortable.
“I don’t get it,” Sanji mutters. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Gin frowns at him. “Why would I want to be dead?”
“Who said you were dead?” Sanji grumbles around the cigarette.
“What is this?” Gin asks patiently. “What should I want?”
“This,” Sanji snaps, gesturing around them with the cigarette. “I’m here, I’m looking after you. No need to run around after that fake Admiral anymore, no need to ever worry about starving ever again.”
Gin stares around them at the kitchen, which has changed shape again, and has to fight down the feeling of being offended. “I don’t need looking after,” he states thinly. “Why would you even think that?”
“Because it’s what you want,” Sanji explains as if talking to a child. “That’s why I’m here, after all. You want me to take care of you.”
Gin can feel a headache coming.
“Am I dead? Just tell me already,” he moans, head dropping into his hands.
“Shut up about that, would you? Look,” Sanji punctuates by pointing the cigarette at him. “When you think about me, you’re happy. Even Krieg notices it, that’s why he tries to keep you distracted by giving you shit to kill. And your main memories of me revolve me feeding you and looking out for you, right?”
Gin frowns and doesn’t answer.
“So, naturally, it stands to reason that you want me to look after you. That’s what makes you happy,” Sanji finishes, smug smile tugging at his mouth. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah.” His voice raises into something far too feminine. “What would you like to eat? I’ll make you anything.”
Gin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wait, are you saying you’re my subconscious?”
“I suppose that’s better than constantly asking if you’re dead,” Sanji shrugs, and he sounds like himself again.
Gin places his hands on the table in front of him and bows his head slightly. He has to close his eyes against all of it, can’t concentrate with the shifting kitchen and the endless white and the subservient poses Sanji keeps striking.
“I don’t need you to look after me,” he growls. “If I’m happy when I think about you, maybe it’s nothing to do with the food, maybe it’s to do with me.” Because that feels right, that feels like the truth. His time at the Baratie opened his eyes to his own state, his own loyalties and his own way of thinking, and Sanji’s presence may have helped that but it wasn’t the only factor. It wasn’t all about Sanji.
But Sanji doesn’t let him finish. He hears the shift of fabric as Sanji stands, and opens his eyes to see Sanji stub out his cigarette on an ashtray that hadn’t existed moments before.
“Okay, I get it,” he murmurs, and there’s a dangerous edge to his voice as he stalks closer. “You don’t want me to look after you.” He saunters around the table, and Gin watches him through narrowed eyes. And then he forgets to breathe as one of those endlessly long legs swings over his thighs.
“You just want me,” Sanji purrs, looking down at him through heated eyes.
Gin wonders when his subconscious got so fucked up.
Sanji’s lips are hard against his own, and they tingle like nicotine and everything else that’s bad for you but utterly addictive. Gin makes a noise that he never thought he’d hear himself make, something high and confused, and his arms flail as they try to grab the edge of the table but it’s too late.
It doesn’t hurt when he falls on his back on the floor, although Sanji’s weight landing on top of him is still somewhat jarring.
Sanji’s hands are everywhere at once, gripping at his biceps, tugging at his clothes, angling his head for a better angle, deeper, wet tongues and heat. Taking the time to tug at each earring, and if Gin weren’t entirely convinced that his mind was already cracked and broken, that would be the thing to do it.
His own hands grab for Sanji’s wrists, try to pry them away from his body, but Sanji just whines into his mouth. Gasps and bites at his bottom lip, legs tangling around Gin’s own, and Gin distantly tries to remember if the Sanji he met on the Baratie had ever exhibited any signs of being able to writhe like a porn star.
He jerks his head to the side, and he’s panting like he’s run a marathon, or just faced Pearl in one of his moods. And Sanji starts licking at his neck, kissing along his jaw, nosing and rubbing against the stubble there and making these noises that make Gin wish that maybe he was dead after all.
“If you’re my subconscious,” Gin gasps, and he sounds so strained to his own ears. “Does that make this masturbation, or what?”
Sanji laughs against his throat, and his breath is hot enough to burn. “Just go with it,” comes the response.
Gin wishes he could, and doesn’t quite understand why. Really wishes he could when Sanji rolls his hips, and it takes more effort than it should to roll the slighter body off of him and stumble to his feet.
“Am I dead?” he asks again, voice cracking.
“No,” Sanji snaps, pulling himself upright and smoothing down the creases in his jacket. “But if you don’t drop your trousers in the next thirty seconds, you’re gonna wish you were!”
Gin takes a step back, before it sinks in. “I’m really not dead?”
Sanji crosses his arms and looks slightly petulant. “No, you’re not. And we don’t have much time left here, so if you’re going to have any epiphanies about me and your sexuality, we better get down to business.”
“Epiphanies?” Gin asks cautiously, watching Sanji loosen his tie.
“Yes, dumbfuck!” Sanji barks. “You got hit on the head, and you’re going to wake up soon.”
Gin glances around them. The kitchen, the house, it’s all disappeared. The endless white seems off, somehow. It’s closer to beige, or something.
“Eggshell,” Sanji supplies helpfully, then raises his hands defensively when Gin turns to glare.
“Why are you here? Why not Krieg, or someone else?” he demands.
“You want to have sexual fantasies about Krieg?” Sanji splutters, wrinkling his nose in a way that Gin does not find cute.
“I heard that,” Sanji grins smugly, tapping his nose. Gin glowers.
“I don’t want to have sexual fantasies about anyone!” he bellows, and raises a hand before Sanji can interrupt again. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I want to know why it’s you that’s here. I haven’t seen you in months.”
The world around them slowly turns a darker shade of grey.
Sanji frowns, and steps towards him, and when their eyes meet, there’s nothing but sincerity there. “Because you haven’t stopped thinking about me,” he says quietly. “Because you can’t admit it, even to yourself. Because, no matter what you claim, you do want me.”
Gin gapes.
“Or maybe,” Sanji says with a shrug and a smile. “Maybe it’s all just circumstantial.”
Gin snaps. “Fine, I don’t care if I’m dead or having an epiphany or what! I just want you to act like yourself and not some sex-crazed housewife, all right?”
“Myself?” Sanji whispers.
“Yes!” Gin shouts.
Sanji kicks him in the head, and everything goes black.
*
“So messy,” Sanji scoffs, glancing around at the carnage that surrounds them.
“Whatever,” Zoro shrugs, sliding Wadou back into her sheath. He toes the crumpled body of the swordsman who’d been boasting about his skills to anyone who’d listen. “Not even a challenge.”
He steps back, and almost trips over the fallen body. He only vaguely remembers the hilt colliding with something as he’d stepped into the brawl, but he can guess from the rapidly forming bruise just underneath the bandana that he’d managed to knock the guy out with the force of the blow.
“Hey, does he look familiar to you?” he grunts. When he looks up, though, Sanji’s already halfway across the courtyard.
“C’mon, we don’t have time for this, we’ve kept Nami-san waiting long enough,” he calls back.
Zoro frowns and follows, stepping on Gin’s chest as he goes.