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Jun. 5th, 2005 02:19 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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onepieceyaoi100Title: Gravity
Topic: Dancing
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Smoker/Ace
Word Count: 300
Author's Notes: Also known as the Hey I'm Not Actually Dead post. I tried to do a different take on the idea of 'dancing' and... well, let's see how that turned out. I had to cut it down by 58 words, so... I posted the original version, too. Not a big difference, but I feel like meaning was better conveyed through the full ficlet, and the wording is less choppy. Or something. I don't know, it's 2:22 AM, I'll probably hate this in the morning.
Gravity
They dance around this all the time. Playing words back and forth, little nuances in their speech meant to decipher the code, to pinpoint the core of truth around which they turn.
"I really do wonder what the hell it would take to keep you from stalking me." The subtle lilt to the I, not a single relation to the conversation they appear to be having, and yet the only true word in the dialogue lying beneath.
"'Stalking' is such a harsh word. You'd have no excitement if not for me." Simply words thrown out there, a prompting; he is letting the other man lead this dance, or think that he is.
"Portgas, I'd love nothing more than if you tumbled off that skiff of yours." This time, the meaning is reflected in the irritation placed on every word but love, that terrifying word that some can only feel safe using if it is used in mockery.
"That rips at my very heart, taisa. You've wounded me." A familiar step-step-step; a complicated waltz.
"You're a pirate; I thought a requirement for that was that you have it surgically removed." And there, the you. Perhaps not the last step in the dance, but certainly one that matters in order for it to flow smoothly.
"And I suppose spiteful marines are the ones who snatch them for keepsakes—" Misstep; a sentence without any hidden meaning regardless of the intention. Nothing concealing the truth: a dancer who has stumbled obviously, despite his purpose.
"—Just shut up. I like you better when you don't talk."
An almost gentle save, in his particular way; footing is regained.
"Don't talk? Or can't?" The only underlying meaning is a smirk; the only response is direct and open, hot and breathless; consuming.
The dance goes on.
Gravity
They dance around this all the time. Playing words back and forth, little nuances in their speech meant to decipher the code, to pinpoint the centre of this strange dance, the core of truth around which they turn.
"I really do wonder what the hell it would take to keep you from stalking me." The subtle, curious lilt to the I, not a single relation to the conversation they appear to be having, and yet the only true word in the dialogue lying beneath.
"'Stalking' is such a harsh word. Besides, you'd have no excitement if not for me." Simply words thrown out there, a prompting; he is letting the other man lead this dance, or think that he is. I'll follow your steps, if only because I know exactly where you're going to move next.
"Portgas, I'd love nothing more than if you were caught in a thunderstorm on that skiff of yours." This time, the meaning is reflected in the irritation placed on every word but love, that terrifying word that some can only feel safe using if it is used in mockery.
"That rips at my very heart, taisa, it really does. You've wounded me." A familiar step-step-step; a complicated waltz.
"You're a pirate; I thought a requirement for that was that you have it surgically removed." And there, the you. Perhaps not the last step in the dance, but certainly one that matters in order for it to flow smoothly.
"And I suppose spiteful marines are the ones who snatch them for keepsakes—" Misstep. An almost choking pause; a sentence without any hidden meaning regardless of what had been the intention. Nothing concealing the truth is reflected in the words, the face, the structure. A dancer who has stumbled obviously, despite perfect intent.
"—Just shut up. I like you better when you don't talk."
An almost gentle save, in his particular way; footing is regained; a mistake corrected by a partner who has learned to perceive.
"Don't talk? Or can't?" The only underlying meaning is a smirk; the only response is direct and open, hot and breathless; consuming.
The dance goes on.
Topic: Dancing
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Smoker/Ace
Word Count: 300
Author's Notes: Also known as the Hey I'm Not Actually Dead post. I tried to do a different take on the idea of 'dancing' and... well, let's see how that turned out. I had to cut it down by 58 words, so... I posted the original version, too. Not a big difference, but I feel like meaning was better conveyed through the full ficlet, and the wording is less choppy. Or something. I don't know, it's 2:22 AM, I'll probably hate this in the morning.
Gravity
They dance around this all the time. Playing words back and forth, little nuances in their speech meant to decipher the code, to pinpoint the core of truth around which they turn.
"I really do wonder what the hell it would take to keep you from stalking me." The subtle lilt to the I, not a single relation to the conversation they appear to be having, and yet the only true word in the dialogue lying beneath.
"'Stalking' is such a harsh word. You'd have no excitement if not for me." Simply words thrown out there, a prompting; he is letting the other man lead this dance, or think that he is.
"Portgas, I'd love nothing more than if you tumbled off that skiff of yours." This time, the meaning is reflected in the irritation placed on every word but love, that terrifying word that some can only feel safe using if it is used in mockery.
"That rips at my very heart, taisa. You've wounded me." A familiar step-step-step; a complicated waltz.
"You're a pirate; I thought a requirement for that was that you have it surgically removed." And there, the you. Perhaps not the last step in the dance, but certainly one that matters in order for it to flow smoothly.
"And I suppose spiteful marines are the ones who snatch them for keepsakes—" Misstep; a sentence without any hidden meaning regardless of the intention. Nothing concealing the truth: a dancer who has stumbled obviously, despite his purpose.
"—Just shut up. I like you better when you don't talk."
An almost gentle save, in his particular way; footing is regained.
"Don't talk? Or can't?" The only underlying meaning is a smirk; the only response is direct and open, hot and breathless; consuming.
The dance goes on.
Gravity
They dance around this all the time. Playing words back and forth, little nuances in their speech meant to decipher the code, to pinpoint the centre of this strange dance, the core of truth around which they turn.
"I really do wonder what the hell it would take to keep you from stalking me." The subtle, curious lilt to the I, not a single relation to the conversation they appear to be having, and yet the only true word in the dialogue lying beneath.
"'Stalking' is such a harsh word. Besides, you'd have no excitement if not for me." Simply words thrown out there, a prompting; he is letting the other man lead this dance, or think that he is. I'll follow your steps, if only because I know exactly where you're going to move next.
"Portgas, I'd love nothing more than if you were caught in a thunderstorm on that skiff of yours." This time, the meaning is reflected in the irritation placed on every word but love, that terrifying word that some can only feel safe using if it is used in mockery.
"That rips at my very heart, taisa, it really does. You've wounded me." A familiar step-step-step; a complicated waltz.
"You're a pirate; I thought a requirement for that was that you have it surgically removed." And there, the you. Perhaps not the last step in the dance, but certainly one that matters in order for it to flow smoothly.
"And I suppose spiteful marines are the ones who snatch them for keepsakes—" Misstep. An almost choking pause; a sentence without any hidden meaning regardless of what had been the intention. Nothing concealing the truth is reflected in the words, the face, the structure. A dancer who has stumbled obviously, despite perfect intent.
"—Just shut up. I like you better when you don't talk."
An almost gentle save, in his particular way; footing is regained; a mistake corrected by a partner who has learned to perceive.
"Don't talk? Or can't?" The only underlying meaning is a smirk; the only response is direct and open, hot and breathless; consuming.
The dance goes on.
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Date: 2005-06-05 07:02 am (UTC)-claps-
you win..... >>;; ACE IN A SKIRT ^_^
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Date: 2005-06-06 04:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-05 12:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-06 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-05 12:57 pm (UTC)We <3 you, Firetears!
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Date: 2005-06-06 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-08 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-16 05:54 pm (UTC)