Author's notes :

Ok, so, Aevium and I spent some time fooling around with one of Seventh Sanctum's wonderful generators yesterday. I didn't really plan on posting this, but since she did post her own, I think it's only fair that I do as well.

This is a drabble, obviously, and it's not really good (especially not compared to Aevium's little masterpiece, even with such a vague, silly prompt). It was more of a spur of the moment thing, and I didn't edit it as I'm used to with my regular fics. Also, I'm posting it as the first in a – hopefully long – series of drabbles, which will most likely revolve around Zoro and Sanji, though this might change. I sure hope we'll both have time to write more of these in the future.

Prompts, if any, will be posted at the end of each entry.



He couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. It shouldn't be.

And yet, he was holding the evidence between his wavering hands.

Truthfully, he had never reflected on it, but if someone had asked him before today, he'd have replied that he didn't think the swordsman could possibly write. Especially not poetry. And especially not poetry meant for him.

He had found it as he was sliding into bed for a well-deserved afternoon nap. Someone had slipped a small piece of paper under his pillow, which he found as he settled for his nap, sliding an arm under the soft cotton material, as usual.

He was curious at first, and he found himself delighted when he realized it was a piece of Nami's map parchment. What was so important and secretive that she had to slip him a note? But he soon became quite disillusioned when he unfolded it and didn't recognize her writing. If not the beautiful navigator, who could have written it? Robin, maybe? Certainly not. She wouldn't have such a messy writing. The paper was full of crossed out words, as if the author couldn't make their mind on what to write, and he could spot a few misspelled words here and there.

His eyes wandered through the text, and really, it was the most idiotic, yet strangely endearing piece of poetry he ever read. Something about his eyes, blue like the summer sky, and the like. It was a little awkward, but it was sweet.

He turned the paper, looked at the back, and his blood froze in his veins. He hadn't noticed earlier, but someone had scribbled a few words on the other side.

"To the shit-cook."

He couldn't believe it. Zoro, of all people, had given him poetry? And that dumbass thought that line wouldn't give him away? Sanji shook his head incredulously.

Before long, he was fumbling around his locker to find a pen and ink. He folded the paper, and hastily wrote a response on the blank side. Then, he went to that idiot's bunk, and slipped the note under his pillow.

There. Let that moronic, adorable asshole have a taste of his own medicine.

He got back into his own bed, and closed his eyes, sighing tiredly. He needed that nap, and he needed it now.


"To the marimo :

That green on your head / Makes me think of rotten eggs / A waste of good food.

By the shit-cook.

Try harder."


"During the story, a letter is delivered."