Katana to Yume
Rating – Mature for light violence, language, and consensual heterosexual intercourse. Rated WAFF for cheesiness.
Pairing – Zoro & Tashigi
Inspiration – Seeming lack of any Zor/Tag lemons on the web. Sideways reference to Hana to Yume as warning for romance.
Author – Cat, Avatar for the DCG. Questions, comments, complaints, bitches, gripes and moans to me, here.
Why – Well, I wanted to read some nice smut about Zoro and Tashigi. So I hit up all the usual suspects. No dice – or lemons! So I spent a couple of hours hitting every site Google turned up for a 'One Piece fanfiction' search. Still no luck. So I tried Metacrawler. Zilch. I checked fanlistings. Nyet. I tore at my hair and banged my head into the wall. While the pain distracted me for a while, when it went away there was still no lemony goodness on my screen. My ever faithful priest (and beta-reader) APCCP Mattemo pointed out that if the situation annoyed me that much, I should remedy it.
And here I am. I soon figured out one of the reasons, sexual or sword or legal tensions aside, no-one had written about Zoro and Tashigi before. News Flash – they aren't on the same ship! And if Smoker's ship catches the Going Merry again… Well, lets say I doubt Tashigi and Zoro are going to have the time for a short romance followed by lengthy sex. sigh But I refused to let this defeat me, and instead, when faced with adversity, fell back on the second cheapest trick in the book, TWT! (The first being, of course, AU.) Cheese follows.
It had all started fairly innocently. Well, not really. It had started, accidentally, say. The island seemed blissfully boring, much as Little Garden had. Although, with that as an example, and minding their luck, they had been cautious, at first. That had lasted for all of about five minutes.
Sometimes, Zoro swore, if he had to see any of his mates for even a second more, he would just go crazy; and not stop fighting until they were all dead, or he was. Either that, or jump overboard and swim for sanity. These islands of the Grand Line, each with their own little adventures and dangers, had to be the only thing that kept them all relatively whole.
"Only united against the world, or somethin'."
"You say something, Zoro?" Usopp seemed only mildly curious.
"No." Then, after a pause. "I'm going for a walk."
No reply, no overly dramatic hysterics at being left alone. (Luffy was, of course, long gone, Nico Robin with him; and the damned cook had left soon after, purportedly for food, though Zoro had his doubts.) Zoro glanced up to the top of the pilot house, where Usopp appeared not to have heard him, so wrapped up in measuring and pouring was he.
Chopper, who was hovering at Usopp's shoulder, met his eye nervously. "How long, ah, I mean… When will you, ah, be back?"
Zoro glanced into the late afternoon sky. "By dinner, maybe. Breakfast if not. Or lunch"
Usopp half turned, his attention split between the glass flask in his hands and the swordsman.
"Sanji won't save anything for you from Luffy if you're late, y'know."
"Like I care." Zoro shrugged. "I'll eat something out there."
At this, Usopp turned all the way around, his eyes comically large. As if it had waited until he was distracted the liquid in his hand began to slowly bubble. "You can cook, Zoro? You lie!"
"Any idiot can put meat over a fire."
Nami, listening from her lounge chair on the fo'c'sle, felt the need to rise to this. "Does this mean you admit to being an idiot?"
Usopp chortled, then yelped as the concoction he had ignored began to boil and spit in earnest.
Unable to come up with a witty retort, and suddenly unwilling to spend even another moment on the ship to think of one, Zoro stalked to the side and jumped gracefully down. His dramatic exit was only spoiled by the fact that no one was paying him the slightest attention.
Tashigi was glad of her shore leave. Not that they were in much of a port, but that made it all the better. With only a village to stake out, she had been allowed time to leave the ship and to do some much needed training. She'd decided that what she really needed was to toughen up. Her technique was good, and in fact she had probably been over-analyzing it, since there — Alabasta. So it had to be in those areas where she was held back by nature that she was deficient. Weight training on the ship was fine, but for stamina work she really needed more room. Thus, the request for shore leave. She had a week, which was enough time to make a good start, find her current limits. She took only a tarp for the rain, some blankets, an aid-kit, a jug of the local moonshine (for sterilization purposes, and if necessary, pain relief), and a small sack of grains and dehydrated vegetables. In a way, it gave her flashbacks to training, back when she had first joined the marines. But she wasn't as excited about it now as she had been then. Really.
She had hiked up into the high hills on the first day, out on to the far side of the small range, where there were no signs of humanity. She set up camp next to an icy cold stream, where a miniature waterfall made a small pool. Perfect for cold endurance training, breathing practice, and bathing. And fish. Maybe. She'd never been much good at fish.
The next day had set a pattern she had followed since. Get up in the pre-dawn for a nice warming jog and a wake-up dip in the pool. Boil up some tasteless mush to eat with whatever she had hunted down the day before. Strikes with a weighted practice sword for a while. Go for an extra-long run up the side of the range, then back down. Eat leftovers for lunch and find something to kill for dinner. Practice forms for a few hours. Do some meditation and endurance under the frigid waterfall. Weight training and another short cool down run. Eat dinner. Free practice on whatever she felt lacking on, until it was too dark. Have another short dip to wash off. Go to bed.
Simple, but she could feel the ache in her muscles every day when she awoke. She wasn't sure how she was going to keep up the regimen when she returned to her duties on the ship, but… At least, for these next two days, she could continue to relax and enjoy herself.
The island seemed pleasant enough. It seemed to be some sort of "spring" island — nice and crisp, ranging to actually chilly in the shade. The dense woods were broken with green flowery meadows and meandering streams. He'd been wandering for about two hours without seeing signs of human habitation, and had yet to be assaulted by any animals. All in all, nearly idyllic. Zoro was officially bored.
He hiked farther into the hills, hoping for a nice impassible cliff to climb, some sort of monster to attack him... Something to break the tedium. It was about when he was going to turn back, disappointed, that he smelled the food. Pulling his way into a nearby tree, he could see a thin, nearly invisible strand of smoke, as from a safely smoldering camp-fire, off to his right a bit. Probably not one of his mates, he figured. If they made a fire, it wouldn't be banked.
He jumped out of the tree and cautiously approached where he thought the fire should be. He only had to climb into the trees once more to orient himself, proving that the camp was close indeed. Mostly, he followed his nose. His caution was not due to any fear of the fire's maker, but to the thought that, if the camp was unpleasantly inhabited, he would not be surprised. In general, it never hurt to be careful. As he approached, he saw that the woods had been cleared somewhat in a semicircle around a brook with a two meter waterfall. A lean-to of waxed canvas sheltered a cozy looking nest of blankets, and the banked fire had a haunch of some sort of meat skewered over it. There appeared to be no one around. He was about to "Hello" the area when a sneeze drew his attention back to the waterfall. And there it stayed.
There was a person — no, definitely a woman — underneath the near freezing spray, arms outstretched to her sides, parallel to the ground. That wasn't what caught his attention though. No, what had stayed his gaze was her state of dress, or rather, undress. Not that she was naked. No, Zoro could well testify that she seemed to be wearing pants under the waist high water. And, if his attention didn't wonder any further upward than her very naked chest, well it was scarcely his fault.
He probably stood there, staring at her tits, for at least five minutes before his higher brain functions kicked back in. "I'd probably better get out of here. This doesn't look like the best time to ask her to share her dinner. She looks kinda involved."
He didn't move from the spot, though. "But, y'know, she looks pretty fuckin' distracted. Maybe I should stay and make sure nothin' sneaks up on her. Ah dammit! Now I sound like the shitty love-cook. I'm leaving." Moving seemed harder than recriminations though, for his legs refused to turn and walk him away.
His internal argument was interrupted by the snap of a twig. He froze guiltily, not even breathing, before realizing that the sound had come from the other side of the pool. The woman in the water had not waited, though, and jumped smoothly from the water to pick up her weapon, (which Zoro had not noticed, embarrassingly enough), from the bank. Her back to him, she also scooped up some small object — glasses — and set them on her face.
Zoro stopped breathing again, for an entirely different reason. He knew that profile. He knew who that woman was. And she couldn't be here! It was idiocy! He could not have been ogling — that is — looking at, the copy-cat marine! There was no way!
A small animal, some sort of wild dog, broke cover from the bushes from whence the noise had come, probably attracted by the smell of food. The marine tensed, then laughed, sounding… fairly pleasant, actually. Then she drew her sword, tossing the scabbard while she stamped her foot and yelled at the already spooked animal. It fled. Zoro considered doing the same, quickly.
The ensign drew smoothly up to her full height, dripping wet. Then, stepping forward to pick up her scabbard, she tripped over something that had to be largely imaginary. Her face-plant into the sod, narrowly missing her own flailing sword as she fell, was the last straw.
Zoro burst into slightly hysterical laughter.
The laughter startled her — there should have been no one around. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, too. She rolled over on her back and pushed up on her elbows, squinting in the direction of the laughter. It stopped, abruptly, as she fumbled for the glasses that had dropped off her face. She pushed them on, looking at…
It wasn't possible. She blinked hard, keeping her eyes closed for a couple of seconds. When she opened them, Roronoa Zoro was still standing on the edge of her little camp, staring at her, his face an odd pink color that clashed badly with his hair. She scrambled to her feet, trying not to blink again, lest he disappear. In the act reaching for her Shigure, she realized that the sword was still in her right hand. She backed up a step, then turned, grabbing her scabbard to sheath her blade. When she turned back, he was still there, staring at her.
"You're really here, aren't you?"
He started at the question, flushing darker, his gaze abruptly on her face. It was about then she realized he hadn't been looking at her face — and why he was blushing. She wasn't wearing a shirt. She wasn't wearing a damned thing on top! She yelped, her face apparently catching alight, it felt so hot, and leapt for her jacket, shrugging into it as fast as she could.
It wasn't as though she was self-conscious about her body. No, recruit camp had removed any problems she had with modesty — they had all, the men and the few women, slept, ate and sweated their asses off together. She lived, most recently, on a galleon with better than one hundred and fifty men, and no other women. It wasn't like it was even her first time, having a guy looking at her, specifically. After all, there had been that short, pathetically doomed... thing when she was a petty officer. But somehow, the fact that Roronoa had seen her half-clothed was a little odd. Uncomfortable, like it seemed to make him.
She stopped fumbling for her buttons, angry at her own thoughts. What was she, some feeble excuse for a girl who had never held a sword? He probably went without his shirt all the time. If her bare chest made him uncomfortable in his little sexist world, too bad. Thus worked up, she left her jacket defiantly open as she turned back to face him. If Commodore Smoker could pull it off without a turning cherry-red, so could she. Probably.
He was still there — not blushing quite as hard as he had been, his eyes locked to hers. She raised her sheathed sword at him in challenge, then pivoted, setting her right side facing him in a wide stance. She resettled he glasses more securely on her nose and spoke civilly.
"So, I guess you are ready for that re-match." She crouched a little with her words, a good ready position, and prepared for attack from any direction.
Zoro wandered forward a few steps, keeping his eyes firmly on the marine's face, though it made him uncomfortable to stare at her too-familiar features like that. But under no circumstances was he going to let his gaze drop below her collar again. That jacket was not fastened, and her turning sideways to him had not obscured… the issues.
"Where are all your goons?" He asked, attempting to distract himself with vague curiosity. He didn't look around, though.
"Other side of the range, in the village. Where are yours?"
He grinned at the description. "They aren't mine, they're Luffy's. And they're back there, somewhere." He waved idly behind him, drifting forward another step. She shifted her weight minutely, her sheathed sword by her left leg.
He stopped, studying her position. "Iajutsu, huh? Try not to embarrass yourself."
She didn't rise to his teasing. "Try me. Or are you afraid of a challenge, Roronoa Zoro?"
He bristled somewhat, at that. "Not from you, I'm not. Or have you miraculously improved since Alabasta? I heard how you fared against Crocodile."
She growled, then, her composure seemingly forgotten, and gave vent to a banshee-like wail that would have deafened him, had he not been expecting it. (Nami was known to make the very same sound, occasionally, when driven to the very edges of her admittedly short patience, usually by their erstwhile captain. It might well be some sort of obscure female attack. Nico Robin had never done it in his hearing, but he had not particularly hung around her if he could help it, either.)
Her charge was surprisingly speedy. Obviously she had, indeed, improved. She came in fast and low, from his right, where, had he all of his swords out, he might still be only able cover with one. She had also, obviously, been studying his style. This pleased him inordinately, the thought that his reputation and style had spread far enough, on the Grand Line, that people would analyze it, and try to develop weaknesses.
He drew — the Wadou Ichimonji, of course — as she moved forward, and her own very fine katana flashed out at the last second — a exemplary fast draw from someone who he'd not seen use the technique before. Or rather, he thought — as he blocked, low and fast across his body, putting some strength in it to sweep her thrust far out of line — he had seen her use it before, once, when he first met her. On those thugs, right before she had fallen down.
His sweep, meanwhile, had neither disarmed nor unbalanced the marine. He was faintly impressed, as that was all it had taken last time. Instead, she used the momentum to throw her body into a spin — crouching in the meantime to minimize the target her back presented as it flashed past — and swept in low again, this time at his left leg.
Ignoring the shameful back-attack opportunity, he drew the Yubashiri with his right hand (no need to tempt fate with the bloodthirsty Kitetsu), blocking across his body again, with even more strength. She seemed to have anticipated the counter, though, and was already leaping away. A clever feint to allow her time to recover, obviously. He grinned, finding himself actually amused. As long as he kept his eyes on her blade and her feet, then perhaps he had found a bit of the excitement he'd been looking for.
She stood, braced for a few moments, seemingly waiting for him to attack. When he did not, she re-sheathed her sword in the scabbard she still carried in her left hand and charged in again.
It was infuriating. She attacked again and again, from all angles and directions. She was pushing herself to her limits, using all of her speed and strength and guile. She had not stumbled or misstepped for the entire time, not allowing that luxury to herself, forcing her clumsy body to perform as it had not in... years, at least. Perhaps ever. And yet she had not even scratched the man before her. That damned, thrice-damned pirate! He just stood there, not attacking, blocking in the most complicated manner possible, like some flashy instructor.
He had not donned his dark bandanna, drawn his third sword, used his santoryuu. He had not even moved from the spot on the ground he had taken up, to her judgment. Again, he would not even deign to treat her as a fellow swordsman, the sexist bastard. And grinning — smirking — the entire time. But…
She had noticed that he was not as responsive to thrusts as to slashes. Perhaps a mere fraction of a second, but he was definitely slower. She knew why, of course. It was obvious, the way he flushed ever so slightly as the tip of her sword changed leads across her chest. But it was an opportunity, if a small, chancy, and even perhaps... cruel one. And she had an attack that, perhaps, could exploit it.
Surprisingly enough, Commodore Smoker had the very same hesitation, in sparring. Not for the same reason, of course. No, just that his oversized jitte was best used as a sword-breaker — on slashes and chops. In battle, real battle, he usually used his Devil Fruit powers to react to thrusts, rendering them utterly ineffectual. But in sparring, he did not, and there was always the slightest hesitation there, as he decided how best to handle them without, well, smoking, as it were.
And not two weeks ago, she had successfully utilized a thrust fast enough — and crafty enough — to get a hit on him. On Commodore Smoker. Granted, it utilized some base assumptions, of... well... anyhow. It had worked, and Commodore Smoker said that was all that counted. There was no fair or cruel in battle.
Swallowing her pride, she prepared for the attack. Backing a few steps, then, when he didn't move, a few steps more, she once more sheathed her precious Shigure and took a few breaths deeply, through her nose — as much to center herself as to catch her breath.
"Done already?" The pirate's horrid smirk widened until it was practically a leer, it seemed.
It was perfect, just the opening she needed. In fact, it was nearly the same words Commodore Smoker had used. Shaking off the feeling of deja-vu, she glared as if the comment had shaken her and charged in again. A few meters away, she jumped into the air, using the extra momentum and weight to swing a hard blow at his head. He blocked, as she knew he would, with such an obvious attack, although it warmed her that it took two swords. Or rather, the second sword was to throw her off, it seemed. She absorbed the momentum with a twist, coming down at his back even as he turned, swords at the ready. Crouched in landing she prepared the feint, all or nothing.
"Scum!" she screamed, launching herself upwards, her katana moving swiftly toward his right side. As he moved to block, she knew it was time. Her right ankle seemed to twist beneath her, turning her lunge into a lurch. She allowed a panicked look to cross her face as she pulled her arms in — to catch her balance, seemingly. Then, as the tip of her blade re-centered on her body, she struck.
The thrust utilized her whole body from a standing position, a collection of all of her resources with her left palm against the hilt, pushing the blade even faster. He moved to block, but the hesitation — compounded by the perceived stumble — was there! And he was slow, too slow! Even as he blocked, the tip of her blade stabbed into the outside of his left arm, ripping through muscle and skin and cutting through the knot on the damned bandanna.
In her triumph, she let down her guard, and her body — her own clumsy body — betrayed her. As she brought her right leg forward to stabilize herself against his block, her foot caught on the back of her left knee, buckling her supporting leg. With the steady strength of Roronoa's blade pushing against hers, instead of falling to her knees she was thrown into a spin. Her glasses were slung from her face one direction, Shigure wrenched from her hand in another.
In the strangely stretched moment she saw the pirate's katana finally come into attack position on either side of his still shocked face.
"Too late," she thought resignedly. Then her head struck the ground and she knew no more.
Zoro continued the motion as smoothly as he had started it. His left boot came down on the blade near her outstretched hand, his own swords sinking into the hard ground on either side of the marine's head. Futile, as he had thought — she was out cold, a small trickle of blood on the stone her head had struck.
He wavered for a few moments between humor and anger before deciding that it was actually hilarious. After all, she had carried out an intelligent and well planned attack, had drawn blood on him. Had made him counter-attack despite his intentions! And then tripped over her own feet to knock herself out on a rock. It would almost be worthy of Luffy, except that his captain was never clumsy in battle. Or particularly anywhere else, but it had the same flavor of the ridiculous.
He got control of his laughter and sheathed his swords. He turned to walk away, then paused against his will.
"Walk away, dammit!"
But his feet, once again, did not obey him. Just because he had not seen any dangerous animals, or people, did not mean there weren't any. He was not, he found, so hardened as to walk away from a woman bleeding and half dressed on the ground — even one who had attacked him. Sighing, he turned back toward the marine. Then looked away, blushing.
"Why couldn't you've fallen onto your, er, front?" He looked away into the surrounding wood and nudged her with the toe of one boot. "Oi. Wake up."
Nothing. If it had been one of his mates he would have kicked her. Well, maybe not, but still. The marine was silent at his feet, looking as helpless as a child. She seemed smaller without her sword in her hands. Probably felt smaller too — Zoro always did. Still she did not move as he waited, her shallow breathing the only indication that she lived.
"Fuck it," he muttered under his breath.
He turned to the nest of blankets and extracted one at random. Wrapping it around the unconscious woman, he lifted her easily, but with a twinge in his left arm. Looking, he realized that the katana had cut more deeply than he'd realized. Shrugging, he deposited her under the tarp, then turned to the brook to wash out the cut.
The wound had gone with the grain of the muscle, about an inch deep near his elbow, then steadily shallower along his arm until it ended an inch or so short of his shoulder. Not debilitating, but annoying none the less. He debated with himself shortly, then ripped one of the blankets into bandages. He figured that was the least she could offer, being her fault and all.
"Even if she isn't conscious to volunteer them." He smiled humorlessly. "Speaking of..."
He wet down a few of the strips and made his way to the fireside, crouching down next to the marine. She was still breathing, but had yet to regain consciousness. He hoped she hadn't rattled anything in her skull. Even Chopper said that head injuries were pretty touch and go — they either recovered, or they didn't.
He rolled her onto her side, then cleaned the blood mat out of her hair as best he could. Or, rather, as best he could do anything at the extreme length of his reach. He just didn't feel comfortable getting any closer to her when there weren't any swords between them. Knotting a bandage around her head inexpertly, he backed off — looking for any signs of return to consciousness. She didn't seem like she was going to pop up any time soon, disappointingly enough.
He retrieved his bandanna, her katana, and, after a moment, her glasses. Returning to the fire, he decided a cut or three from the roast would only be just repayment for the guard duty he was pulling. At the going rates for a top notch swordsman, she was getting off cheap. He leaned back against the log set by the fire, preparing for a light nap, confident he would wake at the slightest sign of danger.
Bonus! The thrust Tashigi uses is actually RK Saito's Zero Stance. Because everything I know about swordsmanship I learned from comic books.