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Entry tags:
Drunk Drabble Time, Whoooo!
Title: Battle High
Rating: PG15
Pairing: Shanks/Ben
Word Count: 765
Shanks smelled like blood, tasted like it too. Ben growled back against the insistent press of lips, got a snarl in response. The captain would not be denied and even he was no match for Shanks after a battle, his blood running high and his damn battle aura rendering even a good two-thirds of his own crew unconscious. The World Government was lucky Shanks was the sort of man he was, Ben thought with what little free will he had left, or all of these marines would have been dead, their brains splattered on the hard calcium of their skulls, no chance at all to strike back. Shanks, when he was provoked enough, forgot just how strong he really was. The force of his will was implacable, inescapable, and Ben was the only one with the foresight to throw up a shield against the raging tempest of Shanks’ will. All around him men fell, even Yasopp and good old Lucky Roux staggering to their knees as their captain released every last ounce of frustration and anger.
The strength of it buffeted against shields that suddenly seemed far too flimsy and Ben finally opened his mouth, yielding to the demand that had brought two proud ships to founder against the incessant waves of the Grand Line. An imperious tongue, one that knew no other master, swept inside his mouth, and Ben could only murmur deep in his throat, a whine of acknowledgement as Shanks pressed him against the forecastle of his own ship, hips incessant in their demands.
It had been a mistake, Ben knew then. He’d made his captain wait too long and the violence and willful pride that lived just beneath the freckled surface of Shanks’ pale skin had come roaring out, flattening everything in his path with a force greater than a hurricane. Far better to let him fight, to risk defeat, than to let the living volcano stew, emotional magma brewing until there was no choice but to explode or implode. And Shanks had burst on the hapless marines, for which Ben could only be grateful. But they were moot now and the Akagami pirates still lived and so he’d stepped into the line of fire, the only one who could.
The intent in Shanks’ eyes, his focus, is almost too much, and Ben lets his own eyes sink nearly shut. That hazel is too bright, too intense, and he can barely handle being their sole aim. But a rough hand on his cheek reminds him that Shanks is a man too, not a god. And that helps. He drops his trousers, a whisper of cloth that drags on too long as his pants trail down over his legs. Shanks’ hand is hot; feels like he could practically brand him with just his fingers. He never expected this part of the job when he took it, and it still scares him sometimes, but the sheer glory of it is more than enough compensation.
Pain sears him, spits him until his mouth opens, his lips in a perfect ‘O.’ But Shanks is following his own call and he cannot sit still, His hips move, bringing more pain and then the joy, the revelry that sparks through Ben’s blood, makes it sing with pain and submission and a pride that he would never admit to at any other time. Not many could withstand this onslaught, could convert it into something productive. But he can, and he can damn well enjoy himself while he’s at it.
Power, that thrums through him, and pain and so much pleasure that it’s ridiculous. He’d curse him if he could, a simple epithet of ‘stupid Shanks’ but he doesn’t have enough air for it. All he can do is pant for breath and ride out the last throws of Shanks' orgasm and hope that when they stop moving nothing else stirs. He’s usually lucky and so it goes.
Shanks licks the shell of his ear, whispers words not meant for anyone else, and Ben gives an unsteady grin and climbs to his knees. He wants a shower but there’s work first. Bodies are systematically rifled and tossed over the rail and finally he can look his captain in the eye and offer up his prize, the spoils they’ve earned. Weapons and gold and best of all, plans. Shanks smiles, a knife-edged grin, and Ben returns it, tucking the map into his captain’s sash before he turns towards their shared cabin. Tomorrow they’ll sail but for the meantime, there’s something simpler that Ben wants. He hopes he can have it.
Title: Still Alive
Rating: PG13
Pairing: None/Gen
Word Count: 496
Note: Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation...normal Murderface stuff
Twelve red lines. Twelve gashes on hairy skin. Murderface looked at his calf and sneered. His blood was cold as it dripped down his leg and the ache was dulled by liquor. His wounds meant nothing. His pain was nothing and the paper towel he’d shoved beneath to catch the trails would slip unnoticed out with the trash. No one gave a shit. No one cared. The steel of the razor blade between his teeth was bitterly metallic and he ran his tongue over the edge and could find no satisfaction in the way it caught at his tender flesh, tore it open. He was alone and pathetic; a bassist without a cause, a rebel against nothing. It was the times like these, when his blood welled so deeply crimson on the surface of his skin and then just sat there, drying puddles, that he most wished he could kill himself. No one seemed to see him. No one knew him and yet his body told his story in a network of scars.
He was still alive, still useless and worthless and that was probably the most brutal thing of all. What did the rest of them – his so-called friends, his band mates – truly know about brutality? He bled for it, paid for it in flesh and pain, and yet no one ever noticed. Futility, thy name was Murderface. William bit down hard on the cheap bit of steel between his teeth, hoped to crack a tooth and went unrewarded. Just another thing gone wrong. He sat in the hot tub later with an ice pack to his cheek and bandages around his leg and not a one of his band mates thought to ask.
Murderface sulked and pouted and played a wicked bass solo that no one appreciated. Everyone hated him. He was worthless and ugly and stupid and untalented. And Dethklok somehow needed him anyway, he realized as Nathan dragged him off to listen to a new track and Pickles rubbed his shoulders later as just the two of them watched a stupid documentary on giant squids. Yes, he ached but Band-Aids did exist, even if he didn’t always feel like he could afford them.
Contrary to his persona and all expectations, Murderface was determined to participate and he’d just thrown down his gauntlet. In the morning, Charles called Pickles and Nathan in for a conference and when they finally came out, it was decided that it was best if they left Murderface’s tracks in on at least a third of the tracks. It was weird - to have pride in his work - But Murderface didn't care. After twenty years, it was about damn time someone acknowledged him and if he had to nearly bleed out for it to happen, so be it. He was a survivor and he learned his lessons well. On the next album. there wouldn’t be a single track without some credit to the great William Murderface.
Rating: PG15
Pairing: Shanks/Ben
Word Count: 765
Shanks smelled like blood, tasted like it too. Ben growled back against the insistent press of lips, got a snarl in response. The captain would not be denied and even he was no match for Shanks after a battle, his blood running high and his damn battle aura rendering even a good two-thirds of his own crew unconscious. The World Government was lucky Shanks was the sort of man he was, Ben thought with what little free will he had left, or all of these marines would have been dead, their brains splattered on the hard calcium of their skulls, no chance at all to strike back. Shanks, when he was provoked enough, forgot just how strong he really was. The force of his will was implacable, inescapable, and Ben was the only one with the foresight to throw up a shield against the raging tempest of Shanks’ will. All around him men fell, even Yasopp and good old Lucky Roux staggering to their knees as their captain released every last ounce of frustration and anger.
The strength of it buffeted against shields that suddenly seemed far too flimsy and Ben finally opened his mouth, yielding to the demand that had brought two proud ships to founder against the incessant waves of the Grand Line. An imperious tongue, one that knew no other master, swept inside his mouth, and Ben could only murmur deep in his throat, a whine of acknowledgement as Shanks pressed him against the forecastle of his own ship, hips incessant in their demands.
It had been a mistake, Ben knew then. He’d made his captain wait too long and the violence and willful pride that lived just beneath the freckled surface of Shanks’ pale skin had come roaring out, flattening everything in his path with a force greater than a hurricane. Far better to let him fight, to risk defeat, than to let the living volcano stew, emotional magma brewing until there was no choice but to explode or implode. And Shanks had burst on the hapless marines, for which Ben could only be grateful. But they were moot now and the Akagami pirates still lived and so he’d stepped into the line of fire, the only one who could.
The intent in Shanks’ eyes, his focus, is almost too much, and Ben lets his own eyes sink nearly shut. That hazel is too bright, too intense, and he can barely handle being their sole aim. But a rough hand on his cheek reminds him that Shanks is a man too, not a god. And that helps. He drops his trousers, a whisper of cloth that drags on too long as his pants trail down over his legs. Shanks’ hand is hot; feels like he could practically brand him with just his fingers. He never expected this part of the job when he took it, and it still scares him sometimes, but the sheer glory of it is more than enough compensation.
Pain sears him, spits him until his mouth opens, his lips in a perfect ‘O.’ But Shanks is following his own call and he cannot sit still, His hips move, bringing more pain and then the joy, the revelry that sparks through Ben’s blood, makes it sing with pain and submission and a pride that he would never admit to at any other time. Not many could withstand this onslaught, could convert it into something productive. But he can, and he can damn well enjoy himself while he’s at it.
Power, that thrums through him, and pain and so much pleasure that it’s ridiculous. He’d curse him if he could, a simple epithet of ‘stupid Shanks’ but he doesn’t have enough air for it. All he can do is pant for breath and ride out the last throws of Shanks' orgasm and hope that when they stop moving nothing else stirs. He’s usually lucky and so it goes.
Shanks licks the shell of his ear, whispers words not meant for anyone else, and Ben gives an unsteady grin and climbs to his knees. He wants a shower but there’s work first. Bodies are systematically rifled and tossed over the rail and finally he can look his captain in the eye and offer up his prize, the spoils they’ve earned. Weapons and gold and best of all, plans. Shanks smiles, a knife-edged grin, and Ben returns it, tucking the map into his captain’s sash before he turns towards their shared cabin. Tomorrow they’ll sail but for the meantime, there’s something simpler that Ben wants. He hopes he can have it.
Title: Still Alive
Rating: PG13
Pairing: None/Gen
Word Count: 496
Note: Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation...normal Murderface stuff
Twelve red lines. Twelve gashes on hairy skin. Murderface looked at his calf and sneered. His blood was cold as it dripped down his leg and the ache was dulled by liquor. His wounds meant nothing. His pain was nothing and the paper towel he’d shoved beneath to catch the trails would slip unnoticed out with the trash. No one gave a shit. No one cared. The steel of the razor blade between his teeth was bitterly metallic and he ran his tongue over the edge and could find no satisfaction in the way it caught at his tender flesh, tore it open. He was alone and pathetic; a bassist without a cause, a rebel against nothing. It was the times like these, when his blood welled so deeply crimson on the surface of his skin and then just sat there, drying puddles, that he most wished he could kill himself. No one seemed to see him. No one knew him and yet his body told his story in a network of scars.
He was still alive, still useless and worthless and that was probably the most brutal thing of all. What did the rest of them – his so-called friends, his band mates – truly know about brutality? He bled for it, paid for it in flesh and pain, and yet no one ever noticed. Futility, thy name was Murderface. William bit down hard on the cheap bit of steel between his teeth, hoped to crack a tooth and went unrewarded. Just another thing gone wrong. He sat in the hot tub later with an ice pack to his cheek and bandages around his leg and not a one of his band mates thought to ask.
Murderface sulked and pouted and played a wicked bass solo that no one appreciated. Everyone hated him. He was worthless and ugly and stupid and untalented. And Dethklok somehow needed him anyway, he realized as Nathan dragged him off to listen to a new track and Pickles rubbed his shoulders later as just the two of them watched a stupid documentary on giant squids. Yes, he ached but Band-Aids did exist, even if he didn’t always feel like he could afford them.
Contrary to his persona and all expectations, Murderface was determined to participate and he’d just thrown down his gauntlet. In the morning, Charles called Pickles and Nathan in for a conference and when they finally came out, it was decided that it was best if they left Murderface’s tracks in on at least a third of the tracks. It was weird - to have pride in his work - But Murderface didn't care. After twenty years, it was about damn time someone acknowledged him and if he had to nearly bleed out for it to happen, so be it. He was a survivor and he learned his lessons well. On the next album. there wouldn’t be a single track without some credit to the great William Murderface.
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