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Entry tags:
Cooking Scars
Erm, more random words strung together, trying to get a feel for some things.
Title: Traceries
Rating: PG15
Pairing: Sanji/Zoro
Word Count: 713
There are spider webs on his fingertips, thin white traceries across his skin. He hasn’t cut himself in two months and he hasn’t had anything serious enough to add to the fine lacework in nearly half a year.
The first one he can remember clearly was an accident with a paring knife. He was trying to cut the skin off an apple in a single curly ribbon of red, just the same as the sous chef who liked to put them around the edges of the pork platter. There had been blood everywhere but it hadn’t hurt that much to slice so deeply into his index finger. At least, it hadn’t hurt until he had his usual dish duty and the soapy water soaked his bandage and made it sting.
Many more slips followed, most from either haste or wandering attention. Chopping leaf lettuce one day with only ten minutes to go before lunch and at least two other tasks to finish, he nearly took off half of his middle finger and had to run around with coarse black thread holding the pieces together for far too long. That one he can actually feel from time to time; a slender raised line that he likes to rub his thumb across when he’s thinking about his dinner menu or his grocery list.
His shitty old man beat a greater respect for his tools into him, not that he didn’t already hold a proper knife in high regard, but accidents happen with somewhat depressing frequency in any kitchen and he had plenty of mementos from the Baratie. Only once on the Going Merry has he gained a new mark. The smallest finger on his left hand has a tiny mark down the outside, his own fault for being distracted and the damn marimo’s for being so damned distracting.
He doesn’t peel apples – and he’s been able to make ribbons for years now – any more on deck after breakfast. He doesn’t skin potatoes or carrots either. Nami’s mikans are okay because he can just use his fingers, and he’s taken to shelling peas because it seems somehow fitting. The cabbage head is all glistening sweat in the kinder light of morning, noises coming from his throat that do things. He smokes like a chimney and imagines the kinds of decadent deserts he’d love to make if only he had the ingredients. His hands are fairly steady as he works and peas fall into the bucket between his knees unnoticed while he watches from under the spill of his hair.
They don’t hurt and he usually doesn’t pay much attention to them. All chefs have them along with a burn mark or two, one of the hazards of the profession. Scars are about the only hazard of being a swordsman because the only alternative is death. The shithead is obsessed with them, perhaps because he has so many of his own. Sanji indulges Zoro only because it suits him and because the big lout does truly have a talented mouth.
Seaweed brain is warm still, damp from the shower and with just the faintest hint of his earlier exertions clinging to him at the juncture of his hips, the crease of his elbow. The midday meal is just starting to simmer on the stove and he has almost thirty minutes before he’ll have to be ready to fend off the captain long enough to serve the ladies. He watches as two of his fingers disappear into molten wetness and shivers when teeth scrape roughly. The heartbeat under his palm is strong and steady and he can feel the gap that divides that chest in two when he presses the swordsman back to lie on the table.
He leans over him, close enough for his hair to tickle a tanned cheek while he whispers a few words to help move things along. Zoro makes one of those deep throaty sounds that makes the base of his spine tingle and he slips his dripping fingers free and moves them lower. Later he wraps his sturdy, scarred chef’s hand around the iron heat between them and drinks down every last gasp the swordsman gives him. He licks his cobwebbed fingertips afterwards and decides to add more salt to the lunch.
Title: Traceries
Rating: PG15
Pairing: Sanji/Zoro
Word Count: 713
There are spider webs on his fingertips, thin white traceries across his skin. He hasn’t cut himself in two months and he hasn’t had anything serious enough to add to the fine lacework in nearly half a year.
The first one he can remember clearly was an accident with a paring knife. He was trying to cut the skin off an apple in a single curly ribbon of red, just the same as the sous chef who liked to put them around the edges of the pork platter. There had been blood everywhere but it hadn’t hurt that much to slice so deeply into his index finger. At least, it hadn’t hurt until he had his usual dish duty and the soapy water soaked his bandage and made it sting.
Many more slips followed, most from either haste or wandering attention. Chopping leaf lettuce one day with only ten minutes to go before lunch and at least two other tasks to finish, he nearly took off half of his middle finger and had to run around with coarse black thread holding the pieces together for far too long. That one he can actually feel from time to time; a slender raised line that he likes to rub his thumb across when he’s thinking about his dinner menu or his grocery list.
His shitty old man beat a greater respect for his tools into him, not that he didn’t already hold a proper knife in high regard, but accidents happen with somewhat depressing frequency in any kitchen and he had plenty of mementos from the Baratie. Only once on the Going Merry has he gained a new mark. The smallest finger on his left hand has a tiny mark down the outside, his own fault for being distracted and the damn marimo’s for being so damned distracting.
He doesn’t peel apples – and he’s been able to make ribbons for years now – any more on deck after breakfast. He doesn’t skin potatoes or carrots either. Nami’s mikans are okay because he can just use his fingers, and he’s taken to shelling peas because it seems somehow fitting. The cabbage head is all glistening sweat in the kinder light of morning, noises coming from his throat that do things. He smokes like a chimney and imagines the kinds of decadent deserts he’d love to make if only he had the ingredients. His hands are fairly steady as he works and peas fall into the bucket between his knees unnoticed while he watches from under the spill of his hair.
They don’t hurt and he usually doesn’t pay much attention to them. All chefs have them along with a burn mark or two, one of the hazards of the profession. Scars are about the only hazard of being a swordsman because the only alternative is death. The shithead is obsessed with them, perhaps because he has so many of his own. Sanji indulges Zoro only because it suits him and because the big lout does truly have a talented mouth.
Seaweed brain is warm still, damp from the shower and with just the faintest hint of his earlier exertions clinging to him at the juncture of his hips, the crease of his elbow. The midday meal is just starting to simmer on the stove and he has almost thirty minutes before he’ll have to be ready to fend off the captain long enough to serve the ladies. He watches as two of his fingers disappear into molten wetness and shivers when teeth scrape roughly. The heartbeat under his palm is strong and steady and he can feel the gap that divides that chest in two when he presses the swordsman back to lie on the table.
He leans over him, close enough for his hair to tickle a tanned cheek while he whispers a few words to help move things along. Zoro makes one of those deep throaty sounds that makes the base of his spine tingle and he slips his dripping fingers free and moves them lower. Later he wraps his sturdy, scarred chef’s hand around the iron heat between them and drinks down every last gasp the swordsman gives him. He licks his cobwebbed fingertips afterwards and decides to add more salt to the lunch.
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Love it! Its soooo detailed and totally sexy. Your word choice in this piece is just exquisite.
Yum.
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His shitty old man beat a greater respect for his tools into him <3333
The shithead is obsessed with them, perhaps because he has so many of his own. He indulges him only because it suits him and because the big lout does truly have a talented mouth. Oh yes! Lovely!
Zoro makes one of those deep throaty sounds that makes the base of his spine tingle and he slips his dripping fingers free and moves them lower. GUH!!! Oh damn, Emily. Why is it that you don't write ZoSan more often again? Because it clearly works for you. Very, very well. *fans self*
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Seriously though, I have a hard time writing Sanji and I think it comes out. I dunno, I just don't have a handle on his character the way I think I do for the other straw hats.