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Entry tags:
Drabble Requests Done Part 3
Title: To the Rescue
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 1,095
“Leader!”
Sandals beat out a fast tattoo against the sand-covered stones that lead to Kohza’s house. Small arms pump furiously and a mouth gapes open, trying to suck in enough air. Another desperate cry rings out across the ruins.
“Leader!”
Kohza had been guarding the ruins with his band of local children – to their parents, it would appear as if the children were playing an elaborate game of Fort or perhaps bandits and royal guards, but to the small group of younglings, it was serious business that had been appointed to them by Chaka himself – but the sound of his title, called in such a breathless fashion catches his attention. His capped head peers cautiously over the end of a crumbling wall as the princess dashes into view.
Vivi’s short blue ponytail is a flag behind her and there are strange traces of dirt coating her legs and arms and decorating the hem of her sundress. She looks frantic, desperate, and there are traces of tears on a face that has previously refused to back down even against one of his own fierce beatings. She spots him, skids to a halt, and pants before shouting once more.
“Leader! Leader, you’ve got to come! It’s Carue!”
Carue is one of Vivi’s family members, more than a pet, he is one of the princess’s special people. Kohza and his group of followers have grown fond of the spot-billed duck as well, and he can feel his eyes widen slightly at the thought of the duckling being in trouble. Children boil out of the ruins, flocking to the shrill whistle Kohza gives through pursed lips. They follow him closely as he trots over to the exhausted princess.
“Where’s Carue? What’s wrong?”
Vivi gazes up at him, a mingling of hope and horror in her eyes before she shuts them against remembered pain.
“Leader. He’s, we…we went to the oasis. The little one. And Carue, he…he went in too deep. One moment he was right next to me and the next….”
The princess swallows back panic, stares at him with the same trust that all of the children he’s gathered to himself reflect in their eyes.
“Leader! We have to help him! I think, if we run fast enough, we can keep him from drowning.”
She spins on her heel and tears back the same way she’s come, not looking back to see if he’s following. Kohza is, of course, and he even has the presence of mind to holler back at the kids dashing at his heels for one of them to stop and grab a sandal Vivi’s lost in her flight. It crosses his mind, briefly, that they are all the children of Alabasta, children of the fierce desert wind, of stinging sand, and of the most extreme of temperatures. Aridity is something they know how to survive. He’s pretty sure, though, that not a one of them knows how to swim.
That’s all right. He’s Leader, and he already has a plan. They’ll form a human chain, because people float if he remembers correctly, and if Carue has sunk towards the bottom, well, he’ll just have to be the one to dive for the duck. After all, Carue is one of his and he won’t let him die without a fight. Vivi is far ahead, her distress lending her short legs and tired lungs adrenaline-derived strength. Kohza summons a burst of speed, leaves the rest of the children far behind as he sprints.
He catches the princess just as the two of them crest a final sand dune. The tiny oasis, small but deep, sits not far from the ruins. It’s halfway between his house and the palace, and they’ve often played there, splashing in the shallow waters around the edge of the pool. He’s watched on occasion, always well hidden, when members of the royal guard stop by on a break. Some of those men can swim, and he remembers with a hint of trepidation the diving competitions that no one won when whatever item they were playing with ends up in the center of the spring.
Vivi is nearly bowled over; she comes to a dead halt and Kohza almost doesn’t have time to stop himself. Arms windmilling, he only jostles her, and then freezes, trying to figure out why she’s no longer moving. In a moment, as soon as he follows her intent gaze, he realizes why. From the vantage of the dune, they can just see the spring over the line of brush that rings it. Carue is floating in the middle, from time to time going bottom up and then vanishing beneath the otherwise placid surface of the water. The princess’s jaw is gaping open when he looks at her, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. Then she’s running again, streaking across the sand and pushing through the bushes with no heed for any scratches.
“Carue! Carue!”
The duckling quacks once, paddles over towards the shore. Vivi splashes in, arms going around his yellow, feathered neck and hugs him for a long moment before her actions change. Carue is throttled for all of ten seconds before the princess’s mood switches again and she goes back to clinging to the confused animal. Kohza, having waved off the charge of his gang, approaches slowly. One of the bushes stirs, then a rock. The king peeks out from the greenery, raises a finger to his lips. Igaram, hunched over behind his gray-painted, papier-mâché creation, nods in greeting to Kohza as the boy sidles closer to the king.
“Spot-billed ducks,” Cobra whispers when his daughter’s hero turns a questioning gaze on him, “instinctively know how to swim. And the ducklings will follow that same instinct in pursuit of fish. Vivi just didn’t know that.”
Kohza nods in what he hopes is a sage manner. As Leader, that should have been something he was aware of and so he pretends that he had already possessed that wisdom. The unruly mob of children behind him is something of a giveaway, but Cobra keeps his mouth shut. One of the most important skills in politics, as he’s trying to teach his daughter and this boy, is the art of diplomacy. Know when to speak, know when to remain silent, know when to let others stand on their own, and know when to help. The princess cries tears of relief and happiness into Carue’s feathers and Kohza sucks in a breath and walks calmly through the brush to lay a soothing hand on her shoulder.
Title: Kitchen
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen or very early and antagonistic Zoro/Sanji
Word Count: 880
Note: Sequel to this
Bottles clinked against each other, a soft sound of glass against glass that was soon followed by rustling noises and the quiet sucking sonance of the refrigerator door opening and closing. The blonde chef was awake even as the first bottle of alcohol was disturbed. He was on his feet and pulling on a shirt even as the ‘fridge was opened, and he stood, quiet and ominous, in the partially opened door of the galley even as the ‘fridge was closed.
Zoro straightened from his crouch with a quiet grunt. The wound on his chest was throbbing again but he couldn’t complain too badly. Between the work of the doctor on the mikan witch’s island and the massive amount of sleep he’d had in the past forty or so hours since they’d left that port, he was finally beginning to mend. Still, all the sleeping he’d been doing meant that he’d missed two dinners, two lunches, and a breakfast. When he’d finally woken up, it had been thanks to the audible complaint of his stomach. Padding slowly off to the galley, he’d discovered a veritable treasure trove of leftovers along with a re-stocked liquor cabinet, and he’d happily availed himself to all of it.
The scrape of a match head against the door frame caught the swordsman’s attention, his head whipping around to watch as the new cook calmly lit a foul-smelling cigarette. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only with Zoro’s somewhat labored breathing and the hiss of smoke between Sanji’s lips as he blew a single, perfect smoke ring. And then the cook spoke.
“Just what in the hell are you doing in MY kitchen?”
Having been accustomed, ever since the Going Merry had been their ship, to helping himself to whatever provisions Luffy happened to leave behind in the galley, Zoro could only gape at Sanji at first. After all, it was a shared ship, with shared portions of work and shared portions of food and shared portions of treasure if they could all make sure not to let Nami get her hands on it. Having gone nearly two days without eating and having already quarreled once with the cook before he’d passed out, the swordsman was in no mood to put up with any crap from the newest member of Luffy’s crew.
“Eating. What the hell else would I be doing, bastard?”
A curly brow twitched and Sanji stepped further into the galley, free hand slipping into his pocket as he flexed his knees.
“There are set times to eat on this ship. And a very precisely calculated rationing of food. You were called to meals but your lazy ass couldn’t be bothered to show up. And I don’t waste food. Luffy ate your share. You can wait until breakfast to eat, you stupid marimo.”
While it was Sanji’s way to feed those who were hungry, no matter who they were, he had already decided to make an exception for the swordsman. The green-haired idiot had done nothing but lie on the deck since they’d left his precious Nami-san’s island. And he snored appallingly loudly and refused summons to meals on top of being rude to the sweet navigator. He didn’t need to be fed.
“I was recovering, moron. And I’ll eat whenever I damn well please. I did before your scrawny ass ever showed up, and I’m gonna do so now too.”
Zoro chose to end his statement with a large, defiant bite of roast chicken (miraculously uneaten by Luffy earlier) and the chef actually almost choked on his smoke. Within seconds, the cigarette was smoldering in the sink, two hands yanked at a heaping plate of leftovers, a heavily shod foot was pushing none-too-lightly against the swordsman’s stitches, and the hilt of Wadou Ichimonji was grinding against a bony shoulder. The silent tug-of-war ended abruptly as several of the lowest of Zoro’s stitches ripped and he tried to twist away. In the process, one of the several bottles of booze he’d tucked under his arm slipped and started towards what could only be a disastrous meeting with the floor.
Sanji let out a small cry and moved for it, getting tangled with Zoro’s legs in the process. The plate of food, piled almost Luffy-caliber high, was tossed into the air along with another bottle of alcohol. There was a loud thump as two bodies hit the floor, immediately followed by the shattering of glass and the lesser thuds of food raining down. Sanji stared at his kitchen from his position on the floor. Wine dripped from his hair, glass shards covered his shirt, and his legs – where they weren’t entwined with the idiot’s – were covered with leftover pieces of broccoli and carrots.
“You…you…BASTARD! You better eat all of this, you stupid shithead marimo!”
For his part, Zoro stuck his tongue out, first at Sanji before he swiped at his own lips. They were doused in rum, as was most of the rest of him. But that was okay. After all, the chicken and most of the rest of his food had landed on his person. And the idiot cook was pissed. A much more satisfying conclusion to this round than their first match; Zoro could be content with that.
Title: Origins
Rating: PG13
Pairing: CRACK (Shanks/Ben, Shanks/Yasopp)
Word Count: 391
Note: I don't think this could ever actually happen. It's entirely meant as a joke.
Shanks dug his toes deeper into the mattress as he surged forward, hand gripping tight to one of the hips splayed wide below him. Closed eyes tightened even further in concentration as the pace increased even further. Suddenly cloudy, rum-blurred hazel eyes flew open and stared down at the man currently moaning and rocking into his thrusts.
“Oh gods…BEN!”
The captain’s cry was loud enough to be heard by the evening sentry, as was the closely following slap that was delivered to a scarred cheek.
Lucky Roux sidled away from the door, made his way up to the single lantern resting on the rail ringing the bow.
“He did it again.”
“I don’t care.”
The reply was angry, stubborn, sullen and the large man could only sigh and slip away as he shook his head. Soon enough Shanks would come crying to him and he’d have to listen to the same sob story as it was recited for about the thirtieth time. Those two really needed to stop fighting before someone else got hurt.
Yasopp scrounged for the remains of his dignity, picking up the last shreds of it from the floor along with his pants, his shirt, and his CLEARLY LABELED bandanna. Shanks had a thing for his hair; it was one of the reasons why he was currently occupying the captain’s bed rather than a certain long-haired first mate. The other ones involved pity and comfort and no small bit of lust on his own part. However, if Shanks was going to insist on calling him by the wrong name…
They reached the next port in only three days and the rift between Shanks and Ben remained as wide as ever. And Yasopp, having been called by the wrong appellation twice more, stomped off to a bar. He staggered back to the ship several hours later, stinking drunk and with a swath of bandages around his head in place of his usual bandanna.
“Now,” he slurred, intoxication making him list and weave and point somewhere over his shoulder instead of at his forehead. “Now the’s no way inna Hell kin forget who’m.”
A month later, once Shanks finally apologized and Ben forgave him, the captain laughingly and somewhat guiltily treated his sniper to the finest vacation he could afford. It was almost enough to make up for the jokes.
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 1,095
“Leader!”
Sandals beat out a fast tattoo against the sand-covered stones that lead to Kohza’s house. Small arms pump furiously and a mouth gapes open, trying to suck in enough air. Another desperate cry rings out across the ruins.
“Leader!”
Kohza had been guarding the ruins with his band of local children – to their parents, it would appear as if the children were playing an elaborate game of Fort or perhaps bandits and royal guards, but to the small group of younglings, it was serious business that had been appointed to them by Chaka himself – but the sound of his title, called in such a breathless fashion catches his attention. His capped head peers cautiously over the end of a crumbling wall as the princess dashes into view.
Vivi’s short blue ponytail is a flag behind her and there are strange traces of dirt coating her legs and arms and decorating the hem of her sundress. She looks frantic, desperate, and there are traces of tears on a face that has previously refused to back down even against one of his own fierce beatings. She spots him, skids to a halt, and pants before shouting once more.
“Leader! Leader, you’ve got to come! It’s Carue!”
Carue is one of Vivi’s family members, more than a pet, he is one of the princess’s special people. Kohza and his group of followers have grown fond of the spot-billed duck as well, and he can feel his eyes widen slightly at the thought of the duckling being in trouble. Children boil out of the ruins, flocking to the shrill whistle Kohza gives through pursed lips. They follow him closely as he trots over to the exhausted princess.
“Where’s Carue? What’s wrong?”
Vivi gazes up at him, a mingling of hope and horror in her eyes before she shuts them against remembered pain.
“Leader. He’s, we…we went to the oasis. The little one. And Carue, he…he went in too deep. One moment he was right next to me and the next….”
The princess swallows back panic, stares at him with the same trust that all of the children he’s gathered to himself reflect in their eyes.
“Leader! We have to help him! I think, if we run fast enough, we can keep him from drowning.”
She spins on her heel and tears back the same way she’s come, not looking back to see if he’s following. Kohza is, of course, and he even has the presence of mind to holler back at the kids dashing at his heels for one of them to stop and grab a sandal Vivi’s lost in her flight. It crosses his mind, briefly, that they are all the children of Alabasta, children of the fierce desert wind, of stinging sand, and of the most extreme of temperatures. Aridity is something they know how to survive. He’s pretty sure, though, that not a one of them knows how to swim.
That’s all right. He’s Leader, and he already has a plan. They’ll form a human chain, because people float if he remembers correctly, and if Carue has sunk towards the bottom, well, he’ll just have to be the one to dive for the duck. After all, Carue is one of his and he won’t let him die without a fight. Vivi is far ahead, her distress lending her short legs and tired lungs adrenaline-derived strength. Kohza summons a burst of speed, leaves the rest of the children far behind as he sprints.
He catches the princess just as the two of them crest a final sand dune. The tiny oasis, small but deep, sits not far from the ruins. It’s halfway between his house and the palace, and they’ve often played there, splashing in the shallow waters around the edge of the pool. He’s watched on occasion, always well hidden, when members of the royal guard stop by on a break. Some of those men can swim, and he remembers with a hint of trepidation the diving competitions that no one won when whatever item they were playing with ends up in the center of the spring.
Vivi is nearly bowled over; she comes to a dead halt and Kohza almost doesn’t have time to stop himself. Arms windmilling, he only jostles her, and then freezes, trying to figure out why she’s no longer moving. In a moment, as soon as he follows her intent gaze, he realizes why. From the vantage of the dune, they can just see the spring over the line of brush that rings it. Carue is floating in the middle, from time to time going bottom up and then vanishing beneath the otherwise placid surface of the water. The princess’s jaw is gaping open when he looks at her, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes. Then she’s running again, streaking across the sand and pushing through the bushes with no heed for any scratches.
“Carue! Carue!”
The duckling quacks once, paddles over towards the shore. Vivi splashes in, arms going around his yellow, feathered neck and hugs him for a long moment before her actions change. Carue is throttled for all of ten seconds before the princess’s mood switches again and she goes back to clinging to the confused animal. Kohza, having waved off the charge of his gang, approaches slowly. One of the bushes stirs, then a rock. The king peeks out from the greenery, raises a finger to his lips. Igaram, hunched over behind his gray-painted, papier-mâché creation, nods in greeting to Kohza as the boy sidles closer to the king.
“Spot-billed ducks,” Cobra whispers when his daughter’s hero turns a questioning gaze on him, “instinctively know how to swim. And the ducklings will follow that same instinct in pursuit of fish. Vivi just didn’t know that.”
Kohza nods in what he hopes is a sage manner. As Leader, that should have been something he was aware of and so he pretends that he had already possessed that wisdom. The unruly mob of children behind him is something of a giveaway, but Cobra keeps his mouth shut. One of the most important skills in politics, as he’s trying to teach his daughter and this boy, is the art of diplomacy. Know when to speak, know when to remain silent, know when to let others stand on their own, and know when to help. The princess cries tears of relief and happiness into Carue’s feathers and Kohza sucks in a breath and walks calmly through the brush to lay a soothing hand on her shoulder.
Title: Kitchen
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen or very early and antagonistic Zoro/Sanji
Word Count: 880
Note: Sequel to this
Bottles clinked against each other, a soft sound of glass against glass that was soon followed by rustling noises and the quiet sucking sonance of the refrigerator door opening and closing. The blonde chef was awake even as the first bottle of alcohol was disturbed. He was on his feet and pulling on a shirt even as the ‘fridge was opened, and he stood, quiet and ominous, in the partially opened door of the galley even as the ‘fridge was closed.
Zoro straightened from his crouch with a quiet grunt. The wound on his chest was throbbing again but he couldn’t complain too badly. Between the work of the doctor on the mikan witch’s island and the massive amount of sleep he’d had in the past forty or so hours since they’d left that port, he was finally beginning to mend. Still, all the sleeping he’d been doing meant that he’d missed two dinners, two lunches, and a breakfast. When he’d finally woken up, it had been thanks to the audible complaint of his stomach. Padding slowly off to the galley, he’d discovered a veritable treasure trove of leftovers along with a re-stocked liquor cabinet, and he’d happily availed himself to all of it.
The scrape of a match head against the door frame caught the swordsman’s attention, his head whipping around to watch as the new cook calmly lit a foul-smelling cigarette. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, filled only with Zoro’s somewhat labored breathing and the hiss of smoke between Sanji’s lips as he blew a single, perfect smoke ring. And then the cook spoke.
“Just what in the hell are you doing in MY kitchen?”
Having been accustomed, ever since the Going Merry had been their ship, to helping himself to whatever provisions Luffy happened to leave behind in the galley, Zoro could only gape at Sanji at first. After all, it was a shared ship, with shared portions of work and shared portions of food and shared portions of treasure if they could all make sure not to let Nami get her hands on it. Having gone nearly two days without eating and having already quarreled once with the cook before he’d passed out, the swordsman was in no mood to put up with any crap from the newest member of Luffy’s crew.
“Eating. What the hell else would I be doing, bastard?”
A curly brow twitched and Sanji stepped further into the galley, free hand slipping into his pocket as he flexed his knees.
“There are set times to eat on this ship. And a very precisely calculated rationing of food. You were called to meals but your lazy ass couldn’t be bothered to show up. And I don’t waste food. Luffy ate your share. You can wait until breakfast to eat, you stupid marimo.”
While it was Sanji’s way to feed those who were hungry, no matter who they were, he had already decided to make an exception for the swordsman. The green-haired idiot had done nothing but lie on the deck since they’d left his precious Nami-san’s island. And he snored appallingly loudly and refused summons to meals on top of being rude to the sweet navigator. He didn’t need to be fed.
“I was recovering, moron. And I’ll eat whenever I damn well please. I did before your scrawny ass ever showed up, and I’m gonna do so now too.”
Zoro chose to end his statement with a large, defiant bite of roast chicken (miraculously uneaten by Luffy earlier) and the chef actually almost choked on his smoke. Within seconds, the cigarette was smoldering in the sink, two hands yanked at a heaping plate of leftovers, a heavily shod foot was pushing none-too-lightly against the swordsman’s stitches, and the hilt of Wadou Ichimonji was grinding against a bony shoulder. The silent tug-of-war ended abruptly as several of the lowest of Zoro’s stitches ripped and he tried to twist away. In the process, one of the several bottles of booze he’d tucked under his arm slipped and started towards what could only be a disastrous meeting with the floor.
Sanji let out a small cry and moved for it, getting tangled with Zoro’s legs in the process. The plate of food, piled almost Luffy-caliber high, was tossed into the air along with another bottle of alcohol. There was a loud thump as two bodies hit the floor, immediately followed by the shattering of glass and the lesser thuds of food raining down. Sanji stared at his kitchen from his position on the floor. Wine dripped from his hair, glass shards covered his shirt, and his legs – where they weren’t entwined with the idiot’s – were covered with leftover pieces of broccoli and carrots.
“You…you…BASTARD! You better eat all of this, you stupid shithead marimo!”
For his part, Zoro stuck his tongue out, first at Sanji before he swiped at his own lips. They were doused in rum, as was most of the rest of him. But that was okay. After all, the chicken and most of the rest of his food had landed on his person. And the idiot cook was pissed. A much more satisfying conclusion to this round than their first match; Zoro could be content with that.
Title: Origins
Rating: PG13
Pairing: CRACK (Shanks/Ben, Shanks/Yasopp)
Word Count: 391
Note: I don't think this could ever actually happen. It's entirely meant as a joke.
Shanks dug his toes deeper into the mattress as he surged forward, hand gripping tight to one of the hips splayed wide below him. Closed eyes tightened even further in concentration as the pace increased even further. Suddenly cloudy, rum-blurred hazel eyes flew open and stared down at the man currently moaning and rocking into his thrusts.
“Oh gods…BEN!”
The captain’s cry was loud enough to be heard by the evening sentry, as was the closely following slap that was delivered to a scarred cheek.
Lucky Roux sidled away from the door, made his way up to the single lantern resting on the rail ringing the bow.
“He did it again.”
“I don’t care.”
The reply was angry, stubborn, sullen and the large man could only sigh and slip away as he shook his head. Soon enough Shanks would come crying to him and he’d have to listen to the same sob story as it was recited for about the thirtieth time. Those two really needed to stop fighting before someone else got hurt.
Yasopp scrounged for the remains of his dignity, picking up the last shreds of it from the floor along with his pants, his shirt, and his CLEARLY LABELED bandanna. Shanks had a thing for his hair; it was one of the reasons why he was currently occupying the captain’s bed rather than a certain long-haired first mate. The other ones involved pity and comfort and no small bit of lust on his own part. However, if Shanks was going to insist on calling him by the wrong name…
They reached the next port in only three days and the rift between Shanks and Ben remained as wide as ever. And Yasopp, having been called by the wrong appellation twice more, stomped off to a bar. He staggered back to the ship several hours later, stinking drunk and with a swath of bandages around his head in place of his usual bandanna.
“Now,” he slurred, intoxication making him list and weave and point somewhere over his shoulder instead of at his forehead. “Now the’s no way inna Hell kin forget who’m.”
A month later, once Shanks finally apologized and Ben forgave him, the captain laughingly and somewhat guiltily treated his sniper to the finest vacation he could afford. It was almost enough to make up for the jokes.