Hate to Love You
folder
+M to R › One Piece
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,143
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M to R › One Piece
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,143
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own One Piece, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Hate to Love You
Just a li'l sumthin' sumthin' that sprang into my head around 3am on a Wednesday morn. Nothing special, really. Not at all...meh...please try to enjoy? Kthxbai.
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It wasn't often Zoro paid much attention to anything other than training, sleeping, eating, cutting down enemies, and putting that damn love-cook back in his place. Though sometimes he looked beyond his own little world that he walked around in, and appreciated the nicer qualities of other things.
Sanji's body was always a pleaser, and he took great shame in admitting that.
It was the legs that did it for him, really. The damn things never seemed to end! They gave the idiot a (barely) noticable height differance, and Zoro didn't like that. So he tended to picture those legs doing...other things, rather than standing and making their bearer tall. Like crawling over and wrapping themselves around his waist, clenching and squeezing as a hot, whining mouth devoured his own, hands entangled in his hair...
He shook his head. He was digressing from his own thoughts. Bad times.
Sanji's hands were also rather nice, he supposed. Anything that talented must be, he reasoned. He liked (secretly) watching the cook as he worked, chopping, slicing, skewering, stirring, diceing, rolling, kneading...whatever he was doing, Zoro didn't really get all that technical jumbo the blond spat at him everyday when they fought...collier, whatever.
He imagined those hands touching, feeling, gasping his skin, muscle, flesh. As if he were a finishing ingredient in a particularly important meal, and Sanji had to take the utmost care to prepare it so. Sometimes he thought it felt weird to want to be a food item, but then he would see the passion that Sanji pounded into every dish, and his doubts faded completely.
He figured Sanji would taste pretty nice, too. When Luffy wasn't immediately about, he would test new recipies himself, savouring every sip of whatever had touched his lips, analyzing and diagnosing what needed to be rectified because, really, nothing short of perfection would ever do. And with all that flavour floating around, especially that of a world class chef, Zoro's money was on him tasting almost as devine as his produce. More so, in fact, because he would have an essence of something that could never be tasted under normal situations, and that was Sanji himself. No amount of spice or whatever could ever recreate that, he figured.
He supposed Sanji's hair was alright, too, because he'd never seen anything that colour before. People thought green was unusual, but Sanji's was fucking golden. Hair should never be that colour! Japanese hair at that, and so natural. He figured it was soft, too, since it was so shiny and the bastard could never leave it alone, brushing all the time and styling it each morning. To cover that damn eye...
He liked Sanji's eyes, so why hide one of them? He knew there was nothing wrong with it. He'd seen it a few times they'd fought. Perfect clear blue. Just like it's twin and just like the ocean he was chasing. And Zoro didn't understand why, but he felt something pull at his stomach whenever he thought of Nami having never seen Sanji's left eye. Or anyone. He had been the only person to really see the only secret Sanji kept from his nakama. And the thing pulled at his stomach again, and it felt good. He felt something close to special, he supposed.
He knew he and Sanji had a dynamic, a bond, that none of the rest of crew understood. Sanji knew it too, and Zoro's heart always raced slightly when the cook abandoned all his flirtations with the girls to take Zoro's bait and play along into a fight. And he always did. Nami would be sitting, pretending to ignore him as he threw drinks, roses and love at her, and Zoro would make one tiny comment about the stupid blond having no idea what an insult he was to humanity, and he would forget completely that women even existed.
When they fought, Zoro knew he was the only thing in Sanji's mind. Like tunnel vision, he supposed; quick and direct. And he loved that. He and Sanji were on the same brainwave; he figured that's why they wanted to kill each other all the time. They were just too similar not to hate each other.
Zoro had been told once when he was younger that there was a thin line between love and hate. He'd previously thought that to be complete bullshit, though now he understood somewhat. He'd gone from wanting to snap the cooks neck to kissing it in a matter of days, hours even. And then back again, but still. There was something between them that no one else shared. Sure, it was more violence than anything but...didn't that in some way make Sanji...his?
His inner monologue was interrupted, and not too politely, by the subject of mental turmoil.
"Wash your damn hands, dinners up," was the growled demand. And Zoro thought about fighting back, just to get a quick rush, a little taste of what could be, in some way, seen as love.
But he didn't.
He just got up and went to the bathroom to wash his damn hands.
Love can't be all about fighting, he supposed. There had to be some love in there to make it work sometimes.
He hated love.
---------------
oooooooooooo...k...
Umm...yeah, well. There you go!
xxx
---------------
It wasn't often Zoro paid much attention to anything other than training, sleeping, eating, cutting down enemies, and putting that damn love-cook back in his place. Though sometimes he looked beyond his own little world that he walked around in, and appreciated the nicer qualities of other things.
Sanji's body was always a pleaser, and he took great shame in admitting that.
It was the legs that did it for him, really. The damn things never seemed to end! They gave the idiot a (barely) noticable height differance, and Zoro didn't like that. So he tended to picture those legs doing...other things, rather than standing and making their bearer tall. Like crawling over and wrapping themselves around his waist, clenching and squeezing as a hot, whining mouth devoured his own, hands entangled in his hair...
He shook his head. He was digressing from his own thoughts. Bad times.
Sanji's hands were also rather nice, he supposed. Anything that talented must be, he reasoned. He liked (secretly) watching the cook as he worked, chopping, slicing, skewering, stirring, diceing, rolling, kneading...whatever he was doing, Zoro didn't really get all that technical jumbo the blond spat at him everyday when they fought...collier, whatever.
He imagined those hands touching, feeling, gasping his skin, muscle, flesh. As if he were a finishing ingredient in a particularly important meal, and Sanji had to take the utmost care to prepare it so. Sometimes he thought it felt weird to want to be a food item, but then he would see the passion that Sanji pounded into every dish, and his doubts faded completely.
He figured Sanji would taste pretty nice, too. When Luffy wasn't immediately about, he would test new recipies himself, savouring every sip of whatever had touched his lips, analyzing and diagnosing what needed to be rectified because, really, nothing short of perfection would ever do. And with all that flavour floating around, especially that of a world class chef, Zoro's money was on him tasting almost as devine as his produce. More so, in fact, because he would have an essence of something that could never be tasted under normal situations, and that was Sanji himself. No amount of spice or whatever could ever recreate that, he figured.
He supposed Sanji's hair was alright, too, because he'd never seen anything that colour before. People thought green was unusual, but Sanji's was fucking golden. Hair should never be that colour! Japanese hair at that, and so natural. He figured it was soft, too, since it was so shiny and the bastard could never leave it alone, brushing all the time and styling it each morning. To cover that damn eye...
He liked Sanji's eyes, so why hide one of them? He knew there was nothing wrong with it. He'd seen it a few times they'd fought. Perfect clear blue. Just like it's twin and just like the ocean he was chasing. And Zoro didn't understand why, but he felt something pull at his stomach whenever he thought of Nami having never seen Sanji's left eye. Or anyone. He had been the only person to really see the only secret Sanji kept from his nakama. And the thing pulled at his stomach again, and it felt good. He felt something close to special, he supposed.
He knew he and Sanji had a dynamic, a bond, that none of the rest of crew understood. Sanji knew it too, and Zoro's heart always raced slightly when the cook abandoned all his flirtations with the girls to take Zoro's bait and play along into a fight. And he always did. Nami would be sitting, pretending to ignore him as he threw drinks, roses and love at her, and Zoro would make one tiny comment about the stupid blond having no idea what an insult he was to humanity, and he would forget completely that women even existed.
When they fought, Zoro knew he was the only thing in Sanji's mind. Like tunnel vision, he supposed; quick and direct. And he loved that. He and Sanji were on the same brainwave; he figured that's why they wanted to kill each other all the time. They were just too similar not to hate each other.
Zoro had been told once when he was younger that there was a thin line between love and hate. He'd previously thought that to be complete bullshit, though now he understood somewhat. He'd gone from wanting to snap the cooks neck to kissing it in a matter of days, hours even. And then back again, but still. There was something between them that no one else shared. Sure, it was more violence than anything but...didn't that in some way make Sanji...his?
His inner monologue was interrupted, and not too politely, by the subject of mental turmoil.
"Wash your damn hands, dinners up," was the growled demand. And Zoro thought about fighting back, just to get a quick rush, a little taste of what could be, in some way, seen as love.
But he didn't.
He just got up and went to the bathroom to wash his damn hands.
Love can't be all about fighting, he supposed. There had to be some love in there to make it work sometimes.
He hated love.
---------------
oooooooooooo...k...
Umm...yeah, well. There you go!
xxx