Holy Crack, Batman!
Nov. 25th, 2005 06:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Seahorse
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shanks/Ben/Mihawk
Word Count: 1406
Note: MPREG
“I hate you.”
There was a pause rapidly followed by the sounds of someone losing their lunch over the side of the ship. Poorly suppressed laughter, the sound of sandals slapping across the wooden planking of the deck, and a pair of hands trying to soothe tense shoulders came next, and then the quiet slurping and spitting of cleaning out a rather wretched-tasting mouth. Feeling a tiny bit better, well enough to risk taking more than three steps away from the rail, one very (and atypically) upset man gingerly settled himself in a deck chair and scowlingly reiterated his point.
“I hate you. Both of you.”
Gold and hazel met, spoke quickly, and decided to let the redhead go first. He was used to taking more abuse after all, and he usually deserved it.
“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that. The doc said you’ll prob’ly only be sick like this for a few more weeks.”
Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say because the half-empty glass of water that had been resting on the arm of the chair was now entirely empty and the formerly placating man was glaring, just as angry as the first. Thunderclouds could have formed from the pressure system brewing between the captain and his first mate and, sparing a small prayer for his own safety, the swordsman grudgingly stepped between them. Without watching what he was doing, completely focused on dark and angry eyes, he shooed Shanks in the direction of his quarters. Although it wasn’t something he normally did, the notorious Hawk-Eyes lowered his proud head and apologized. Again. He was becoming rather used to it, and thankfully it seemed to work relatively well, at least when the apology came from him rather than Shanks.
“I’m sorry.”
“…yeah, I know.”
Cradling his head in his hands, Ben swallowed down another wave of nausea and felt extremely sorry for himself. The whole situation was something that should have been impossible, even given the improbable nature of the Grand Line’s entire existence. And of course Shanks found it all to be hilarious. That bastard was no help at all. But getting angry only made him feel worse, as the churning in the pit of his stomach increased. Letting out his breath in a long, exasperated sigh, Ben tried to settle himself. He was getting very tired of heaving and losing the contents of his stomach.
Mihawk took the sigh to be the sign of an improved mood and perched himself on one of the arms of Ben’s chair. Rubbing small circles into the taller man’s back, the world’s greatest swordsman repeated another set of words that had become familiar.
“At least it wasn’t a devil’s fruit. This isn’t permanent you know.”
Ben just nodded slightly at the oft-heard platitude. That was part of the problem. If it HAD been a devil’s fruit, although his situation would have been, in many ways, far worse, at least it would have made more sense. The rules that governed devil’s fruits, still not entirely understood, would have been more plausible for his situation than the actual truth. Eating an onna onna fruit for example, or even a goby goby one, would most certainly make his current situation possible. Except, of course, than he’d be female then instead. And the change would have been forever.
According to the doctors they’d spoken to, the effects of the hippocampus seeds would wear off as soon as...gestation…was over. But despite knowing that the changes weren’t permanent, they still terrified him. The things that were happening to him simply weren’t rational. None of them were female so, despite having eaten those damned seeds, what had happened shouldn’t have. Just trying to reason through the whole situation made his headache worse. It defied all logic in his mind, even the twisted logic of the Grand Line. That had to be the worst part of all. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea because his brain kept screaming at him that it wasn’t, no matter what crazy things people might eat, see, or do on the Grand Line, possible.
If only they’d never stopped on the island of Tiresias. If only his damn scholarly self could learn to resist the opportunity for research. If only he hadn’t eaten the stupid native bread. If only the stupid natives had seen fit to warn them about the hippocampus seeds. If only his two idiots didn’t imbibe; consuming too much local alcohol in Mihawk’s case and not enough in Shanks’. If only he hadn’t stupidly agreed to be the intercessor. If only, if only, if only. All the wishing in the world wouldn’t make the Blues any less wild or strange or dangerous. And it couldn’t change his condition, though heaven knew how hard he’d tried.
Groaning as his head pounded and his stomach proceeded to act like one of South Blue’s infamous cataracts, Ben found his way back over to the rail and lost what little had been left of his supper. Mihawk had joined him, a silent, solid presence at his side until the horribly confused first mate had grumpily suggested that he could use some more water. The swordsman wasn’t nearly as stubbornly obtuse as Shanks and took the hint, giving Ben some space.
The damned doctors on Tiresias had calmly explained everything to him so that he knew what to expect. But even they had no explanation for why the hippocampus seeds worked the way they did. It was just so plainly absurd. Except that clearly it wasn’t because his own body was proof. Ben’s fingers twitched against the rail and he clutched at it desperately, wishing for a smoke or a drink or some other type of debauchery that was now verboten. Bereft of all but his most favored of vices, even books weren’t much of a solace any more. Dry words about history and philosophy and science failed to reconcile with his reality and fiction wasn’t any fun when he felt like an active participant in some sort of horror tale. Worst of all, he had no choice and if he didn’t manage to reconcile himself to his fate he was probably going to drive himself nuts and take half the crew along with him.
The sun was setting when Shanks and Mihawk finally decided to approach Ben once more. They’d let him stew long enough, both agreed, and by now he had to be getting hungry or tired or something that would allow them to pack him off to bed. The whole scene was bizarre and crazy, but at least neither of them was suffering in Ben’s place. The first mate of the Akagami pirates didn’t bother to look up from the waves for a long moment, lifting his head finally only at the clasping of his own hands into two others.
There was, Shanks noted with the ease of long practice, finally a note of, if not acceptance, peace in Ben’s brown eyes although his faintly furrowed brow bespoke continuing confusion. He smiled gently around the broad plains of his first mate’s back at Mihawk, letting the swordsman know that, for the night at least, Ben wouldn’t be doing any more splashing or telling them that they were hated. Hemming him in, they worked in concert to herd the weakly protesting man into Shanks’ cabin. Then, divesting each other of clothing first, they managed to get him – at only a tad more than a month, he still looked like he always had – naked and cuddled into bed between them.
Later, lying there awake and doing a valiant job of ignoring both his gut’s demand for food and his nerves’ for nicotine, Ben decided that all of the why’s and how’s and if’s didn’t matter any more. Only two things did. The first was the most important and that was what in the world they were going to do with a child. His parents, he thought, would somehow understand, although odds were good that Shanks would want to raise whatever offspring resulted aboard the ship. The other issue was almost as important and unfortunately there would be another eight months or so until it could be resolved. There were certain drawbacks for playing peanut butter to two intoxicated and eager to swap pieces of bread. Peering down at the black and red heads pillowed on his chest, Ben wondered once again just whose it would be.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shanks/Ben/Mihawk
Word Count: 1406
Note: MPREG
“I hate you.”
There was a pause rapidly followed by the sounds of someone losing their lunch over the side of the ship. Poorly suppressed laughter, the sound of sandals slapping across the wooden planking of the deck, and a pair of hands trying to soothe tense shoulders came next, and then the quiet slurping and spitting of cleaning out a rather wretched-tasting mouth. Feeling a tiny bit better, well enough to risk taking more than three steps away from the rail, one very (and atypically) upset man gingerly settled himself in a deck chair and scowlingly reiterated his point.
“I hate you. Both of you.”
Gold and hazel met, spoke quickly, and decided to let the redhead go first. He was used to taking more abuse after all, and he usually deserved it.
“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that. The doc said you’ll prob’ly only be sick like this for a few more weeks.”
Clearly that had been the wrong thing to say because the half-empty glass of water that had been resting on the arm of the chair was now entirely empty and the formerly placating man was glaring, just as angry as the first. Thunderclouds could have formed from the pressure system brewing between the captain and his first mate and, sparing a small prayer for his own safety, the swordsman grudgingly stepped between them. Without watching what he was doing, completely focused on dark and angry eyes, he shooed Shanks in the direction of his quarters. Although it wasn’t something he normally did, the notorious Hawk-Eyes lowered his proud head and apologized. Again. He was becoming rather used to it, and thankfully it seemed to work relatively well, at least when the apology came from him rather than Shanks.
“I’m sorry.”
“…yeah, I know.”
Cradling his head in his hands, Ben swallowed down another wave of nausea and felt extremely sorry for himself. The whole situation was something that should have been impossible, even given the improbable nature of the Grand Line’s entire existence. And of course Shanks found it all to be hilarious. That bastard was no help at all. But getting angry only made him feel worse, as the churning in the pit of his stomach increased. Letting out his breath in a long, exasperated sigh, Ben tried to settle himself. He was getting very tired of heaving and losing the contents of his stomach.
Mihawk took the sigh to be the sign of an improved mood and perched himself on one of the arms of Ben’s chair. Rubbing small circles into the taller man’s back, the world’s greatest swordsman repeated another set of words that had become familiar.
“At least it wasn’t a devil’s fruit. This isn’t permanent you know.”
Ben just nodded slightly at the oft-heard platitude. That was part of the problem. If it HAD been a devil’s fruit, although his situation would have been, in many ways, far worse, at least it would have made more sense. The rules that governed devil’s fruits, still not entirely understood, would have been more plausible for his situation than the actual truth. Eating an onna onna fruit for example, or even a goby goby one, would most certainly make his current situation possible. Except, of course, than he’d be female then instead. And the change would have been forever.
According to the doctors they’d spoken to, the effects of the hippocampus seeds would wear off as soon as...gestation…was over. But despite knowing that the changes weren’t permanent, they still terrified him. The things that were happening to him simply weren’t rational. None of them were female so, despite having eaten those damned seeds, what had happened shouldn’t have. Just trying to reason through the whole situation made his headache worse. It defied all logic in his mind, even the twisted logic of the Grand Line. That had to be the worst part of all. He couldn’t wrap his head around the idea because his brain kept screaming at him that it wasn’t, no matter what crazy things people might eat, see, or do on the Grand Line, possible.
If only they’d never stopped on the island of Tiresias. If only his damn scholarly self could learn to resist the opportunity for research. If only he hadn’t eaten the stupid native bread. If only the stupid natives had seen fit to warn them about the hippocampus seeds. If only his two idiots didn’t imbibe; consuming too much local alcohol in Mihawk’s case and not enough in Shanks’. If only he hadn’t stupidly agreed to be the intercessor. If only, if only, if only. All the wishing in the world wouldn’t make the Blues any less wild or strange or dangerous. And it couldn’t change his condition, though heaven knew how hard he’d tried.
Groaning as his head pounded and his stomach proceeded to act like one of South Blue’s infamous cataracts, Ben found his way back over to the rail and lost what little had been left of his supper. Mihawk had joined him, a silent, solid presence at his side until the horribly confused first mate had grumpily suggested that he could use some more water. The swordsman wasn’t nearly as stubbornly obtuse as Shanks and took the hint, giving Ben some space.
The damned doctors on Tiresias had calmly explained everything to him so that he knew what to expect. But even they had no explanation for why the hippocampus seeds worked the way they did. It was just so plainly absurd. Except that clearly it wasn’t because his own body was proof. Ben’s fingers twitched against the rail and he clutched at it desperately, wishing for a smoke or a drink or some other type of debauchery that was now verboten. Bereft of all but his most favored of vices, even books weren’t much of a solace any more. Dry words about history and philosophy and science failed to reconcile with his reality and fiction wasn’t any fun when he felt like an active participant in some sort of horror tale. Worst of all, he had no choice and if he didn’t manage to reconcile himself to his fate he was probably going to drive himself nuts and take half the crew along with him.
The sun was setting when Shanks and Mihawk finally decided to approach Ben once more. They’d let him stew long enough, both agreed, and by now he had to be getting hungry or tired or something that would allow them to pack him off to bed. The whole scene was bizarre and crazy, but at least neither of them was suffering in Ben’s place. The first mate of the Akagami pirates didn’t bother to look up from the waves for a long moment, lifting his head finally only at the clasping of his own hands into two others.
There was, Shanks noted with the ease of long practice, finally a note of, if not acceptance, peace in Ben’s brown eyes although his faintly furrowed brow bespoke continuing confusion. He smiled gently around the broad plains of his first mate’s back at Mihawk, letting the swordsman know that, for the night at least, Ben wouldn’t be doing any more splashing or telling them that they were hated. Hemming him in, they worked in concert to herd the weakly protesting man into Shanks’ cabin. Then, divesting each other of clothing first, they managed to get him – at only a tad more than a month, he still looked like he always had – naked and cuddled into bed between them.
Later, lying there awake and doing a valiant job of ignoring both his gut’s demand for food and his nerves’ for nicotine, Ben decided that all of the why’s and how’s and if’s didn’t matter any more. Only two things did. The first was the most important and that was what in the world they were going to do with a child. His parents, he thought, would somehow understand, although odds were good that Shanks would want to raise whatever offspring resulted aboard the ship. The other issue was almost as important and unfortunately there would be another eight months or so until it could be resolved. There were certain drawbacks for playing peanut butter to two intoxicated and eager to swap pieces of bread. Peering down at the black and red heads pillowed on his chest, Ben wondered once again just whose it would be.
