Drunk and Masochistic Fic...Sorry Zoro...
Apr. 3rd, 2005 03:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsUm...yeah...who'da thunk I could write semi-coherently while drunk off my ass? Oh, it's probably OOC though, since I don't see Zoro (when I'm not drunk) as the kind of guy to inflict his own wounds...he'll let others do it for him ^_~
Rating: R
Note: self-harm, masochism
The taste of metal and blood filled his mouth and he bit down harder upon the razor blade clamped between his teeth. His fingers smelled like he though she'd smell and like he was beginnning to think he'd smell as well. That acrid citrus smell, strong and sour-sweet. A perfect match to the metal taste on his tongue. Damn Usopp for buying craft razors anyway and letting him know they were here. And damn himself for finding them.
He chomped on the razor in his mouth, teeth gripping the blade and sucking hard on the steely taste that was so much more and so much less than the taste that filled him when he put her sword between his lips. At least when it was between his teeth it wasn't snaking down his leg or biting into the muscles of his arm and pulling him higher into drunken reverie.
It wasn't right and he knew it. The taste of pain in his mouth, ecstasy between his legs, the smell of her between his lips. They had been children. He had never known that smell from her directly. And so he associated it with whores on his fingertips and the stench of his own blood pouring off of a blade, his hands. It stung his nostrils, the flesh of his body; took him higher than he had any right to be.
So good. Steel between his teeth as he sucked hard at the razor and wished it was something else. He wasn't sure anymore what he wanted: Luffy or her, both of them bleeding and prone in his mind, the way neither of them had ever been in life. Too tough for that, too hard, too determined, too vicious, even if Luffy hid that side of himself until confronted with real evil.
The bottom of the tub, grooved lightly by non-slip carvings was red. It only made him harder. Made him grip his cock, grind his teeth on the razor blade he'd swiped from the sharpshooter. The taste of metal was so strong. It almost overpowered the smell of the women he'd had. Whores all of them. Never her. Never the one who'd beaten him. But sweet and sharp and sour nonetheless.
Would Kuina have been the same? Would she have made his thighs and arms burn with the sting of his own blood, filling his nostrils with the scent of her sex? Would she have dripped onto the floor as he did now?
The blade was so sharp, reflecting the light of the candles as he peered cross-eyed at it. The taste of it filled his mouth and he had to fight hard the temptation to suck it all the way in, draw the tip of his tongue over it so that is bled sharp iron into his mouth, his throat, waiting for him to swallow it all away.
His thighs burned, red lines and the dried clots of his own blood standing out in sharp relief against the tan of his flesh. If his cock wasn't so hard, if Luffy hadn't been birthed in the eye of his mind, he could have retreated from this disturbed fantasy of the bathroom to the reality of the bathroom he was in, could have washed himself clean. It could all have been ignored, a mere fever dream born of too much rum and vodka and sweat and anger and sheer frustartion. But his fingers smelled of woman and his mind longed for innocence and blood, somehow linked together by a battered straw hat and laughing eyes, a scar that was self-inflicted on a body that could no longer display the pain it had faced.
"Luffy."
The razor was like blood in his mouth, like her, like his vow, like so much that he had become, like so much he had yet to reach. It was hard, harder than the flesh in his fist, as he sucked on it and prayed through the haze of liquor that no one would find him like this, that Luffy would walk in and save him from himself. So hard, and he had to fight from sucking the whole thing into his mouth, from running his tongue over the blade that had tasted his flesh and found him wanting.
It wasn't fair, that he should smell woman and be thinking of a man. It wasn't right that his body sang beneath the fire-bright bite of steel on flesh. He hadn't asked for this. But it was, and who was he to fight the truth and clarity that only alcohol can bring.
He didn't mean to stroke to the memories of brown eyes and a body hardened by experience, not from training. By rights it should have been her. It was her he swore he smelled on his fingers...blood sharp and the tang of womanhood. But it was he that filled his mind's eye. He who he pumped all the more harder to, he for whom he raised his arm, stuck it against the taste of her in his mouth, drew forth life's blood and ever spiralling desire.
Roronoa Zoro was drunk, horny, gone to pieces in a hotel room. And he wanted a dead woman and a laughing young man and the end of himself in both of them. The blade he took into his hand bit deep, but not deep enough; not enough to clear the haze from his mind.
"Kuina."
It wasn't fair. Not at all. He needed to win, to beat her, to taste her, to not have her so absorbed into himself that he felt sometimes like her soul shared space with his own. And Luffy. How had he gotten here? Where was Zoro? Where was his own will underneath the force of these two? Why did he have to bleed to feel? Why did he have to live for others? What about himself?
She wasn't there in the eyes of the young whore he tossed a gold coin to after he'd brought her off with his fingers, his mouth. She wasn't there when he stood underneath scorching heat, wetness taking his own blood down the drain, drowning his pain and sucking it away. She wasn't there any more when he took her sword and held it in his mouth - an act so intimate and yet so profane. And he wondered where she had gone when he faced the Hawk Eyes, when his chest was spit in twain and he wanted to die and to come from the sheer bliss of feeling his soul explode.
It was the young man that kept him alive, the feeling that he'd be betraying something far greater than himself if he actually died. And it was Luffy that suddenly filled his thoughts when he jacked off in the shower, when he strained his muscles past the breaking point lifting weights.
He was a broken man, learning slowly how to live again. And until he could tell the one who he now lived for what was wrong, he had to suffer. He had to smell like a dead woman and long for that which could not be. Roronoa Zoro looked at his body, the red trails that marked it and couldn't free himself from the cage which he had built from rum and sadness and vodka and need, and wished to be whole.
In the room beyond the bathroom door a remarkably astute young man, actively stupid but knowing far more than he let on, awoke. His heart hammered in his chest, and Monkey D. Luffy turned instinctively to Zoro's empty bed.
"I'm coming."
And he padded across the few steps to the hotel room's bathroom quietly, choosing not to knock as he pushed against the door, entering the darkness.
Ummm...I admit to being quite drunk when I wrote this....
Rating: R
Note: self-harm, masochism
The taste of metal and blood filled his mouth and he bit down harder upon the razor blade clamped between his teeth. His fingers smelled like he though she'd smell and like he was beginnning to think he'd smell as well. That acrid citrus smell, strong and sour-sweet. A perfect match to the metal taste on his tongue. Damn Usopp for buying craft razors anyway and letting him know they were here. And damn himself for finding them.
He chomped on the razor in his mouth, teeth gripping the blade and sucking hard on the steely taste that was so much more and so much less than the taste that filled him when he put her sword between his lips. At least when it was between his teeth it wasn't snaking down his leg or biting into the muscles of his arm and pulling him higher into drunken reverie.
It wasn't right and he knew it. The taste of pain in his mouth, ecstasy between his legs, the smell of her between his lips. They had been children. He had never known that smell from her directly. And so he associated it with whores on his fingertips and the stench of his own blood pouring off of a blade, his hands. It stung his nostrils, the flesh of his body; took him higher than he had any right to be.
So good. Steel between his teeth as he sucked hard at the razor and wished it was something else. He wasn't sure anymore what he wanted: Luffy or her, both of them bleeding and prone in his mind, the way neither of them had ever been in life. Too tough for that, too hard, too determined, too vicious, even if Luffy hid that side of himself until confronted with real evil.
The bottom of the tub, grooved lightly by non-slip carvings was red. It only made him harder. Made him grip his cock, grind his teeth on the razor blade he'd swiped from the sharpshooter. The taste of metal was so strong. It almost overpowered the smell of the women he'd had. Whores all of them. Never her. Never the one who'd beaten him. But sweet and sharp and sour nonetheless.
Would Kuina have been the same? Would she have made his thighs and arms burn with the sting of his own blood, filling his nostrils with the scent of her sex? Would she have dripped onto the floor as he did now?
The blade was so sharp, reflecting the light of the candles as he peered cross-eyed at it. The taste of it filled his mouth and he had to fight hard the temptation to suck it all the way in, draw the tip of his tongue over it so that is bled sharp iron into his mouth, his throat, waiting for him to swallow it all away.
His thighs burned, red lines and the dried clots of his own blood standing out in sharp relief against the tan of his flesh. If his cock wasn't so hard, if Luffy hadn't been birthed in the eye of his mind, he could have retreated from this disturbed fantasy of the bathroom to the reality of the bathroom he was in, could have washed himself clean. It could all have been ignored, a mere fever dream born of too much rum and vodka and sweat and anger and sheer frustartion. But his fingers smelled of woman and his mind longed for innocence and blood, somehow linked together by a battered straw hat and laughing eyes, a scar that was self-inflicted on a body that could no longer display the pain it had faced.
"Luffy."
The razor was like blood in his mouth, like her, like his vow, like so much that he had become, like so much he had yet to reach. It was hard, harder than the flesh in his fist, as he sucked on it and prayed through the haze of liquor that no one would find him like this, that Luffy would walk in and save him from himself. So hard, and he had to fight from sucking the whole thing into his mouth, from running his tongue over the blade that had tasted his flesh and found him wanting.
It wasn't fair, that he should smell woman and be thinking of a man. It wasn't right that his body sang beneath the fire-bright bite of steel on flesh. He hadn't asked for this. But it was, and who was he to fight the truth and clarity that only alcohol can bring.
He didn't mean to stroke to the memories of brown eyes and a body hardened by experience, not from training. By rights it should have been her. It was her he swore he smelled on his fingers...blood sharp and the tang of womanhood. But it was he that filled his mind's eye. He who he pumped all the more harder to, he for whom he raised his arm, stuck it against the taste of her in his mouth, drew forth life's blood and ever spiralling desire.
Roronoa Zoro was drunk, horny, gone to pieces in a hotel room. And he wanted a dead woman and a laughing young man and the end of himself in both of them. The blade he took into his hand bit deep, but not deep enough; not enough to clear the haze from his mind.
"Kuina."
It wasn't fair. Not at all. He needed to win, to beat her, to taste her, to not have her so absorbed into himself that he felt sometimes like her soul shared space with his own. And Luffy. How had he gotten here? Where was Zoro? Where was his own will underneath the force of these two? Why did he have to bleed to feel? Why did he have to live for others? What about himself?
She wasn't there in the eyes of the young whore he tossed a gold coin to after he'd brought her off with his fingers, his mouth. She wasn't there when he stood underneath scorching heat, wetness taking his own blood down the drain, drowning his pain and sucking it away. She wasn't there any more when he took her sword and held it in his mouth - an act so intimate and yet so profane. And he wondered where she had gone when he faced the Hawk Eyes, when his chest was spit in twain and he wanted to die and to come from the sheer bliss of feeling his soul explode.
It was the young man that kept him alive, the feeling that he'd be betraying something far greater than himself if he actually died. And it was Luffy that suddenly filled his thoughts when he jacked off in the shower, when he strained his muscles past the breaking point lifting weights.
He was a broken man, learning slowly how to live again. And until he could tell the one who he now lived for what was wrong, he had to suffer. He had to smell like a dead woman and long for that which could not be. Roronoa Zoro looked at his body, the red trails that marked it and couldn't free himself from the cage which he had built from rum and sadness and vodka and need, and wished to be whole.
In the room beyond the bathroom door a remarkably astute young man, actively stupid but knowing far more than he let on, awoke. His heart hammered in his chest, and Monkey D. Luffy turned instinctively to Zoro's empty bed.
"I'm coming."
And he padded across the few steps to the hotel room's bathroom quietly, choosing not to knock as he pushed against the door, entering the darkness.
Ummm...I admit to being quite drunk when I wrote this....
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no subject
Date: 2005-04-03 01:36 pm (UTC)Ah, Zoro, such a confused young man.
Quick question: When he's got a sword or razor in his mouth, is it actually cutting him inside his mouth? That's like all I could think of when I read this...is how bad that would freakin' hurt.
But I am envious, you write far better than anybody I've known...even while you're drunken. It seemed a bit repetitive though. Don't hit me!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-03 08:45 pm (UTC)As for repetitive...yeah, it is. Sigh. That's the problem with drunken writing...I get stuck on one thought ad nauseum.
And thanks for the compliment! I'm not that talented a writer at all, but I did manage to impress myself with how coherent this fic managed to be considering how wasted I was ^^