Drabbles!
Looking through some of my old documents, I found these drabble game drabbles lying around: 20 minutes plus three random prompts equals one (often cracktastic) drabble, cooked up and made to order. Since they weren't doing any good sitting abandoned on my hard drive, I thought I'd post them up here for your (hopeful) entertainment. Enjoy!
Drowning Hangover Eating bugs
This had not been part of the plan.
Granted, it probably hadn’t been the best idea to take that fight outside, not with the goddamn waterfalls of rain pouring from the sky. Worst rainfall of the worst rainy season in recent memory, no contest. Not to mention the fact that they were both uncomfortably close to falling-down drunk, which for ninja of their class was pretty damn hard to achieve. But Genma had the vague thought that “outside” would be better than “inside,” so outside they had gone.
“You just don’t say that kind of shit around here,” he challenged blurrily but emphatically. Raidou had his back on this — he always did. At least the two jounin standing across from them — definitely jounin this time, though probably lacking the scarlet spiral — seemed about as unsteady as he was. As they were. The both of them.
But back to back. That was better.
“I’ll say whatever kind of shit I want,” the burly jounin called back, fingering his shuriken pouch menacingly. Except, well, the belt on his shoddily-constructed civilian getup had slipped alarmingly during the course of the night, so it looked like he was fingering in the general vicinity of his crotch. Genma muffled a choked laugh, and Raidou gave him a sideways look.
“The hell you will—“ Genma retorted clearly — well, mostly — and leapt.
Unfortunately, the ground was no longer quite as sturdy as he'd thought it was. Sometime between entering the bar and now—which, admittedly, had been a long time — this particular back alley had turned itself into a fair approximation of Konoha’s own river. Including, from somewhere, a thick layer of silt and mud. Runoff from the Forest of Death or something? Probably that was somewhere upstream, he thought vaguely, as he landed solidly atop his opponent and slid, face squishing into what felt like inches of mud.
He moved his mouth to shout something undoubtedly very clever, and felt a crunch. A bitter taste bloomed in his mouth. “Fuck, a centipede?” He spat with vigor, choosing the taste of rainwater over that of squished bug. He heard a loud thwack behind him, about the right size to be Raidou rolling off of his fallen opponent. Most likely unconscious opponent, if the drunken repose of Genma’s man was any indication.
His head still spun with alcohol, and the residual taste mingled stomach-turningly with the mashed-up remnants of bug. Damn, this would turn into the worst kind of hangover tomorrow. And the morning breath…
He didn’t even want to think about it.
Elevator failure Sugar high Snowed in
“Why are we stuck here again?” A spindly just-barely-adolescent whined, clinging to his mother’s finely-woven kimono.
Hiro was wondering that himself. Well, he knew, actually: it was because the elevator mechanisms in Mud Country were, as a rule, horribly maintained, and wore down twice as fast on top of that due to the unrelenting miserable weather. And, being that this was an undercover mission, and they were trapped in a tiny elevator with nine other civilians, translocating out was not an option.
Still, he wished he could be anywhere but there. Mostly for one particular reason.
“Hey, you should try some of this!” Ginta nudged at his shoulder repeatedly. “They don’t have this flavor back in Cloud Country.” His eyes were wide and bright, and he was, without a doubt, bouncing. The rapid movement caused the elevator to respond in kind, and Hiro winced. The gathered civilians held tight to the walls, and a toddler emitted a squeal.
The person who had the brilliant idea of giving Ginta grape-flavored sugar candy while they were trapped in a confined space should be taken outside and quietly disposed of. Now.
Unfortunately, the number of reasons why they couldn’t do that were numerous. First, being trapped in an elevator unable to use jutsu did cause something of a problem, on that score. And even if they escaped the elevator - could a daring civilian manage to slide down the guide-wires? - there was the snow to contend with.
A freak blizzard on top of an already bad season had delayed their return already - no members of the merchant’s conference would even consider leaving the hotel in this sort of weather - and then they had to deal with this idiocy?
“I’m really okay, thanks,” Hiro told Ginta with a slight edge in his tone. Ginta just smiled and thanked the little girl who had shared her candy, sitting happily on the floor, seemingly unperturbed by the tense atmosphere.
“I have more!” she offered happily, reaching into her pocket to offer another lump of the candy, presented in sticky, purple-tinged fists.
“Actually, that looks pretty good,” Hiro told her quickly, smiling bright and holding out a hand. She peeled it off her palm, and he stuck it into his mouth quickly. It tasted a little bit like some of the hospital’s more inventive medicinal cocktails, but he accepted it with relief.
Everyone in the tiny, stale compartment should thank him for it. Even if they didn’t know it yet.
House of cards Tsume Cooking class
“There is no way,” Tsume repeated firmly. “No way at all.”
Kuromaru looked up at her pathetically, the neon-orange flyer clutched delicately in his powerful jaws. “But then you could make more tasty food,” he whined, releasing the paper so that it drifted down to lie across her sandals, somewhat moist and rather the worse for wear. Its slogan still stood out firmly in bold letters: “LEARN TO COOK - Because it’s better than ration bars!”
“And I told you, absolutely not! It’s a waste of time.” She picked up the flyer and crumpled it emphatically. Instead of a satisfying crunching sound, the paper made a rather nondescript squish as she balled it up — Kuromaru had apparently carried it quite a distance. “You can hunt for yourself on missions, and we can eat out when we’re in town.” Well, when she had enough money, anyway.
“But if you went, you could make okonomiyaki on missions! Or - or ice cream! Could you make ice cream?” Kuromaru’s eyes saucered. “If you went to the cooking class we could have ice cream all the time.”
Tsume’s lips twitched. “Somehow I don’t think this cooking class will be as miraculous as you think.” She uncrumpled the paper, peering at the fine print. ‘Taught by Shiranui Genma and Namiashi Raidou, chefs extraordinaire,’ was printed in miniscule, difficult-to-read script.
She snorted. Loudly. “I really don’t think this cooking class will be as miraculous as you think.” Had Kuromaru even read that far? She doubted he had been able to look past the long list of dishes and admittedly appetizing photos that filled most of the space on the page. “In fact, I think my cooking might actually get worse,” she laughed.
Kuromaru looked doubtful at that, which she chose to ignore. Hey, her cooking wasn’t that bad. Really!
She re-folded the paper, neatly this time, and tucked it away in a pocket. There was no way that she’d be attending a cooking class of all things, but she couldn’t pass up such an incriminating piece of blackmail material. What bet had Genma and Raidou lost, to end up having to teach cooking? A room full of restless ANBU, trying to sauté and simmer using field supplies and kunai of dubious cleanliness… she almost wanted to go, just to see that house of cards come crumbling down.
Curiosity Kiba Eggplant
“This doesn’t look like food,” Kiba complained, poking at the congealed lumps on his plate. “It’s all… well, it’s purple.”
“It’s supposed to be.” Tsume steeled herself for a large, enthusiastic mouthful, trusting the fragrant stench of the vegetable to help conceal the gag building in the back of her throat. “Vitamins, minerals, whatever – it’s good for you.” She paused, fork held halfway to her lips. “Eat up, or you’ll regret it.”
Kiba pouted, his own utensil inching forward into a tentative advance on the plate before being seemingly thwarted by the gleaming mass of plant matter. “I think I’ll regret it more if I do eat it,” he muttered under his breath, squirming in his seat. “Are you really sure this stuff is edible?”
“I’m eating it, aren’t I?” Tsume retorted irritably. She was: she’d gotten through two and a half entire bites by that point, through sheer concerted effort. “Come on,” she wheedled, “aren’t you curious?”
“No,” he pronounced with finality, his pudgy cheeks setting into a firm expression of implacability. Why, oh why, had she agreed to handle dinner when neither Yasuo nor Tori were around?
“I like it,” Hana piped up tentatively. The stringy substance had already vanished from her plate, and she was casting sideways glances towards Kiba’s.
And this is my daughter? Tsume thought, with horrified resignation.
“Great!” Kiba began with great cheer, already shifting his grip on his fork in preparation for sliding the piled-high plate across the table. “She can have mine, then—“
Tsume snagged his wrist mid-flick. “I don’t think so,” she growled warningly, hackles raising just the tiniest fraction. Kiba shrank back automatically, his spiky hair seeming to flatten of its own accord. “Nobody is leaving this table until you clean that entire plate.” The ultimatum fixed all eyes on him, even Hana’s shifting towards pleading. Everyone had things to do, places to go.
Shoulders slumped and with more dramatically pained faces than he had ever displayed in a training session, Kiba shoveled the vegetable into his mouth until his cheeks puffed up, finishing the remnants in one colossal bite. Tinged faintly green, he looked up towards Tsume for approval, a whine issuing from the depths of his throat.
One curt nod, and the table erupted into hubbub and mingled chaos again, everyone rapidly dispersing to commence whatever plans they’d made for the evening.
Left behind, Tsume sharply released her held breath. Shoulders unknotting with relief, she gratefully tipped the remnants of food on her own plate, overlooked in the drama that had ensued, into the trash can.
Pleasure Pakkun Sandaime
It wasn’t a difficult question to ask, not in the words themselves. Pakkun had practiced for over two years now, and even Kakashi had granted grudging acceptance of his pronunciation. The syllables still felt strange against his drawn-back lips, phrases meant for fleshy, supple tongues and blunt, useless teeth sounding sharp and angled when shaped around an elongated jaw and cutting fangs, but the meanings were understandable, Kakashi said. It was closer to Kakashi’s speech than to the rest of them, Pakkun always thought; Kakashi had fangs, too.
Kakashi stood behind him, a solid support just by virtue of being present. Not solid at all, Pakkun realized intellectually – just a wraith-thin boy, as humans judged such things. But the humans knew that he was strong, even despite that; Pakkun heard Kakashi’s name whispered with respect and fear, never mind his age. Perhaps because of his age.
Kakashi’s strength resonated in Pakkun’s bones, and he felt reassured. But Kakashi wouldn’t do this for him; Pakkun didn’t want him to. It wouldn’t count for anything, that way.
Resolute, Pakkun reared up onto his hind legs, and planted both forepaws in succession against the tall, implacable door.
Knock.
Knock.
He sidled back, the movement awkward with nerves. It wasn’t too very long before the door creaked open, and a wizened face appeared.
“Sandaime-sama,” Pakkun began, bowing his respect, trying not to growl or tangle his teeth around the words. Sandaime stood patiently, waiting.
It took Pakkun a moment to gather himself. He saw sharp, age-shaded eyes flit up curiously to Kakashi, but Kakashi remained impassive, and Pakkun was grateful for that.
“Sandaime-sama,” he began again, and paused again, frustrated with his physiology and his substance, the immateriality that made this something he had to ask for. “I was wondering…”
“Yes?” The strongest shinobi in the village prompted him, encouraging.
“I was wondering,” he finally choked out through the roadblock of his throat and his discomfiture, “if I might have a hitai-ate of my own to wear.”
There was a pregnant pause as the Sandaime seemed to consider this, and Pakkun could feel Kakashi’s gaze sharpen. Don’t ask him, please, Pakkun thought, and Kakashi thankfully remained silent.
Gravely, the Sandaime came to his conclusion. “It would be my pleasure.”
Tsume Kakashi Itch
There was something in the air, Tsume thought, and it was making her nose itch. Something hard-edged and sad; something weary, but accustomed. Something worn-in like a father’s old set of kunai, but no less sharp for that. She hadn’t been back in HQ for long, but the smell was worse tonight than other nights.
It was interrupting her sleep.
So she ghosted through the halls, Kuromaru a silent, massive black shadow growing out of her own. It didn’t surprise her when she ended up in front of one particular doorway, but then, she’d been around a few blocks by now. She figured she knew a few things.
She didn’t even bother to knock.
“Kakashi,” she began in a rock-grating undertone, and the door angled open before she finished the final syllable.
“What do you want?” It wasn’t so much of a question, with the glare emanating from that one sleeplessly-ringed iron eye, as it was an outright order to go away now.
But Tsume was an alpha. She didn’t take orders so easily.
“You’re disturbing my sleep,” she informed him without budging an inch. “If you’re going to be stupid, go do it somewhere else.”
Kakashi’s jaw tightened. His fingers didn’t so much twitch as indicate that they perhaps wanted to twitch, but it was enough of an indication to Tsume that she was treading on rough ground. As if that scent of dried-blood steel wasn’t indication enough.
She still didn’t back down. Kuromaru added his growl to the rumble building in her own throat. “I don’t care what’s bugging you, just deal with it. It’s disturbing my—“
Pack, she almost said, but didn’t. The word wanted to come out of her throat, but that wasn’t a fight she wanted to have tonight, or possibly even a claim she wanted to make. Not now, maybe not ever.
“—my sleep,” she finished in a lame retread, but the scent and chakra-challenge rising from her skin wasn’t lame at all. Just because she wouldn’t claim the rest of this motley crew for her own, didn’t mean that she had to put up with this, not when it was causing trouble for everyone. She really didn’t care what his reason was, this time or any other. But it needed to not damage anyone else, that she was sure of.
Anyone else, or himself.
They stood locked in place like frozen statues of challenge, but it was clear that neither of them wanted to make the first move now. So first Kuromaru turned, then Tsume, leaving Kakashi glaring down the hallway at still-lifted hackles. Not retreating, just leaving this fight for another day.
It might not be her pack, not if she decided not to claim it. But whatever it was, he was part of it, too.
Kuromaru Disgust Genma
“What are you doing?” Kuromaru asked in a scandalized, high-pitched wail. “That’s… that’s… you can’t do that!”
Tsume lay unconscious, her head pillowed in Raidou’s lap as he cleaned a sharp gash leaking crimson down her forehead, so she couldn’t come to his aid. Genma resolutely continued his delicate work, only pausing a moment to disinfect the area with a pair of green-glowing fingers and an antiseptic wipe, just in case.
“But I need that!” Kuromaru howled. “You can’t just… that part’s essential!” He tried to huddle in on himself to shield his delicate flesh from Genma’s kunai, but the medic’s grip held him fast.
“Just stay still and let me work,” Genma bit out in rapid frustration around a mouthful of medicated senbon, and one sewing needle. His bent hands arranged gear in deft flashes of movement: bandages, thread, pain salve and blood pills. “If you keep trying to move, it’ll be even worse.”
“How can it be worse!?” The canine familiar’s objections had slipped past strident and on into thin, pleading whines. “Tsume would never let you do this. Just wait until she wakes up, I’m sure there’s some other answer!”
“Shut up, Kuromaru,” Genma growled, and jerked his wrist. Slicing cleanly with surgically-sharp steel, he made the first cut.
Later, when Tsume woke up and saw the pile of thick black hair shorn and piled in the center of the bunker, Genma was glad that he’d taken the precaution of casting a sound-dampening jutsu before undertaking his much-maligned attempt to dress Kuromaru’s unfortunately placed wound; otherwise he was certain that their targets could have heard her cackles clear across the country.
When a stray shuriken caught him across the scalp a few days later, leaving him with a raggedly-shaven bare spot and equal amusement from Tsume, he began to think that perhaps Kuromaru’s disgust had been the correct reaction.
Ten years from now First date Tsunade
“There is no way. No. I just won’t.”
Jiraiya lounged against a corner of her desk, displacing a pile of disarrayed, red-pen-scattered papers. His hair was as white as ever, but perhaps a little less bushy now – it was hard to tell. She hadn’t seen him in years, after all. Not in person.
“Really, no,” she reiterated, pretending that her sideways glance towards the geologically stacked documentation of her burdens was what kept her in her seat.
“Tsunade, come on! Look, I brought this bottle specially for you. Straight from Wind country, the Kazekage’s finest.” He held up a slim-necked, clear flask, his broad, callused hands cradling it with surprising gentleness. Even his fingernails looked weary.
She glanced at the papers again, thought of Shizune hunched over her own piled papers in the next room. A few hours more work wouldn’t hurt her too much, she was still young. Unlike Tsunade. Unlike Jiraiya.
“One drink,” she said slowly, and felt the tectonics of the earth shift beneath her.