Oh my god you guys. The drabbles. I finished them. But they are not real drabbles. It's physcially impossible for me to write only 100words so it's closer to 500-900words. Also: No porn. :C I'M SORRY. I just can't write it without some preface first which would make it a whole fic thus defeating the purpose of this meme so... meh ;_; Also, I am not a writer. I see the images in my head and I try to describe what I see, but that is sometimes hard and uh,... yeah.

I could also not hold myself back with the DL-prompt. I feel like I could write a bazillion stories about Raistlin right after his test. Mea culpa.

Many thanks go to salty_catfish, domorrigan and mcruthless for being so patient and playing proof reader ;_; You guys are awesome, I heart you from the bottom of my heart ♥♥♥
Enjoy.

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Prompt: Thor/Loki
Fandom: Nordic Mythology; Vikings
For: miarr


"Ach, how dull a day, dragging down those of spirit. By any other agony,-"

"Loki."

"- endurance prevails. Yet through this numb boredom, neither blood-"

"Loki, there is..."

"I said neither blood -" His move was sharp and precise, inhuman even in this temporary body. He must have hit the attacker’s spine, for the man sagged into himself, his Dane axe falling soundlessly to the ground. His eyes bulged in pain and then recognition. He was still young, barely a man, the first tentative fuzz of a beard showing on his smooth chin. He kept staring into Loki’s eternal eyes, wheezing once, twice, before he was sent where he belonged with a twist to the hilt.

"...nor barley can abate. Him in poor company, I pity."

"Good hit, but by the hammer, your rhymes are terrible."

"And what would you know of rhyming?"

"I know for one that they used to be more...", Thor seemed to look for the right word as he scratched his short brown beard in contemplation, but gave up quickly "... witty."

"Your company used to be wittier, too. And whose glorious idea was it again to drag me along on this, dare I say it, dreary jaunt?" He made a broad gesture, encompassing the battlefield and all who lay slain with one dismissive wave of hand as if this was none of his concern, merely a slight offense to his good tastes. "So you are one to complain about my verses."

"You call this boring?" Thor kicked the speared Anglo-Saxon with the heel of his boot, causing him to slide sideways, revealing another motionless body that lay buried under him. It was midday in June, and the sun was burning down their necks. Thor could hardly believe that the grass beneath his feet had been green only a few hours prior.

"It lacks… finesse," Loki said carefully, wiping the slimy, black blade of his atgeir on the unfortunate man’s torn gambeson and tried to breathe not too deeply and only through his mouth. It smelled like someone had dropped them into a latrine pit.

"Oho, is that so? I’ll tell you about-" Loki never found out what it was, that Thor was going to tell him about. The arrow through his right shoulder turned his words into a low groan. With his weight crashing uncomfortably against Loki’s slighter build he had other things to consider than Thor’s idle threat. It was quite an act to keep him upright. Why had Thor insisted on taking this bear of a man’s body as a disguise for their little trip to Midgard? Couldn’t he have chosen someone who was less of an obvious target? Perhaps it was meant as some form of parading his prowess, Loki thought almost fondly.

"Arh, pull it out." Thor reached with his hand to his back, trying to get a good grip on the shaft but always missing by a few centimetres. It looked almost comic, like a dog chasing its own tail if it hadn't been for his pale face and the blood colouring the undertunic a darker green alongside his armpit. "Damnit, Loki, pull it out."

"Here, let me… stop fussing." With one eye on Thor, the other on the battlefield, he jerked the shaft out of his back with a sickening noise followed by a half-moaned swear. It was a good hit, he had to admit. Right between the leather straps that held Thor’s lamellar armor in place.

The archer was quite conveniently hidden at the rear end, behind a boulder and close to the shore, pulling back the bowstring again, ready to launch another arrow, and Loki was quite certain he would not miss. Squinting against the sun, he shook his arm, feeling the arrow vibrate warmly in his palm, before he threw it with all his might towards the archer. It flew with terrifying precision, straight, unaffected by wind or gravity. The thane fell to the ground with the fletching of his own arrow quivering in his chest.

Loki turned around to a sullen faced Thor, who did not share his satisfaction. He was sitting on the raised lower back of an already stiff corpse, fingering his wound with awkward, jerky movements.

"You should tend to that," Loki could not help but grin at him.

"Says the one with a stabbed kidney. Ain’t so boring after all, huh?"

"Still lacking finesse."

"I’ll give you that," Thor stood up, ripping his snag-horned axe out of a skull to aim it with his good arm at a man he had spotted some meters away, looting the dead. "There."

"Oh, very good," Loki clapped his gloved hands, rising an eyebrow sarcastically. "It’s no fair sport to fight the battle of men. We should have stood on opposites ends, it would have made things more... interesting."

Thor blinked owlishly at him. Rolling his shoulders, he snorted and wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand before he said anything. " ’believe Æthelred is still looking for men. Against Sveinn."

Loki considered his words silently, while he listened to the remaining men on the battlefiled as they argued in the distance about the amount of Danegeld. He looked disgusted with the whole ordeal, such cowards they all were and yet... when he regarded Thor again, it was with a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth and a hard glint to his eyes.

"Heathens against those of true faith. Don’t forget to take your hammer. You won’t take me down without a good fight."

"I’m counting on it. Ach and Loki,..." Reaching out one hand, he pulled Loki closer at the neck, bumping their foreheads together. "Choose a redhead next time. Blonde isn’t your colour." Loki’s deep laughter still rang in his ears even after their burrowed bodies had fallen boneless to the ground, two corpses in an amiable embrace among the slain as high above the raven drew its circles.



Prompt: Guy
Fandom: Bat-Ella
For: neekaneeks


There are only two things he enjoys about working as a croupier for Cessar Casino on Cellaros Alpha.

One is the tips.

(Those filthy rich customers cannot bear losing face when he robs them of all their chips in fewer than four rounds. He loves watching their nervous faces when the cards seem to magically fly through his lissome hands, dealing fate and eventually bankruptcy. When the players think only a nonchalant retreat can restore their bloated egos and tip him with their last chip as if to say he was a good match; as if they were anything but magnanimous fellas, deluding themselves in thinking they can afford it. The irony sometimes contorts Guy’s mouth into a thin lipped smile while he deposits his earnings in the casino bank. So far he has never lost a game and his employer loves him for his pragmatic views on the business. You do not come to a casino to win money, you come to keep it.)

The other is his breaks.

(When he can smoke one of the cheaper cigarettes in peace, the only ones he claims taste more than minced fog when it is all his meager salary can buy. When he can devise grand schemes of splendor, disregarding them all after a more realistic analysis. When he is away from the crowd and the noise, in a back alley, watching a distant moon of Mersius Phyrr tilting seemingly backwards high above the lower levels. It always makes him feel nauseous. He can neither feel wind nor movement to go with the changing view and Guy has to close his eyes, hands clenching the rusty balustrade until his knuckles turn white. There is only space and no direction around them, no up, no down, left or right. They say they controll the astroid’s orbit through the Gamma 15 Sector but he never bought it. That thing is flying on its own damn course and one day it will get caught in a planet’s gravity, combust in its atmosphere like a sparkler. A ticking bomb, and as he looks down he realises it is hell and he’s stuck and one day he will burn along with all the vermin he can see beneath his feet. He does not plan to be here when it happens.)

But two things are not enough to keep a man happy and yet... as Guy comes home to his empty studio apartment, night after night, he figures two are better than none and the Casino hell seems as good a place as any.



Prompt: Skwisgaar/Toki
Fandom: Metalocalypse
For: ftw302


He would never get over the sight of the sun starting to bathe the fjords in a soft pink, when the fog was but a glittering veil, barely hinting at the harbors of the many byer they drove past on their road-trip from Göteborg to Trondheim. It were often only short glimpses, the road serpentine and unpredictable in its every turn. Mostly, they drove through tunnels that swallowed the whole landscape for endless orange-tinted minutes, but once they emerged, the view was breathtaking with the water going from black, to pink, to a light blue. Like discovering a new island over and over again, the many sheltered valleys revealed themselves to them in starting clarity, the shadows of yet more mountains and fjords in the distance, unfathomable. Land of the gods.

It had been Toki who had insisted on taking the E39 along the coastline, despite the longer drive and Skwisgaar’s bad temper, which only seemed to lift when they stopped at a gas station, then dropped again when he saw the bill. He tried to make it up to him by playing notes of folk songs on his acoustic guitar, his bootless feet resting on the dashboard, or by telling amusing stories which even Skwisgaar could not help but smirk at. Most times, however, he read comics with his seat reclined almost horizontally, laughing out of the blue, or just stared out the window, listening to Skwisgaar’s deep voice when he told him of his life prior to Dethklok, often humming along to some of the music Skwisgaar had chosen.

Now and then they stopoed at one of the many viewpoints along the road, the gravel grating beneath their boots as the raw wind seized their hair to play with, twisting, whirling just to thrust it back into their eyes and mouths almost lackadaisically. Over the screech of the gulls and through the last bitter-grey breath, Skwisgaar would occasinonally say the Faroese shoot those bastards when they’re bored, then grind out his cigarrette and go back to the car.

Sometimes they switched positions, with Skwisgaar taking a well-deserved nap on the backseat, his long legs folded in on himself like the legs of a chair, while Toki drove their Volvo like a berserk. 100, 110, 120km/h... until Skwisgaar awoke from the motor’s low groan whenever Toki abused the pedal and told him in a horrified voice to CALM THE FUCK DOWN when he saw the narrow bend around a rock face coming alarmingly closer. Every time he screeched like this, he sounded like a girl in a horror movie -- despite his 46 years -- and Toki would just laugh, but go slower as told, grinning stupidly into the rear view mirror.

The reflected sunlight on the water along the gravelly shores behind him would not blind him as much as the grey-tinted blonde hair of an ill-tempered Skwisgaar on the backseat. And he wondered, not for the first time, why they hadn’t returned home earlier.



Prompt: Raistlin
Fandom: Dragonlance
For: miarr, salty_catfish


"How are your eyes?" Antimodes was kneeling before him, holding one of his eyelids open with his fingers, staring at the deformed pupil. The flicker of the lamp behind the old mage was glaring and Raistlin jerked back from the touch, eyes still too sensitive.

"I’ll get used to it."

"Well, if there are any problems-" Antimodes began, as he slowly got up from his crouch, groaning as his knees made a sound of protest. Raistlin snorted and wiped his eyes with a blood-stained handkerchief.

"...apart from the obvious, ah, ..." Raistlin just stared at him, hard, unblinking and Antimodes had a sudden Déjà-Vu from the time he had first encountered the enigmatic boy. No, man. He was a man now, crippled (if not in mind), humiliated, yes, but still a man and the defiance in his eyes that had made the God’s hand on Antimodes’ shoulder tremble so many years ago, had transformed into something adamant and impassive.

Antimodes was not sure whether Raelanna’ eyes were the right punishment to teach Raistlin Majere humility. He was not doubting Par’Salian’s decision, but looking into the young mage’s golden eyes now, he saw just himself, distorted, small, trapped like an insect in amber. It reminded him of Fistandantilus and it chilled him to the bones.

But then Raistlin’s eyelid twitched, his mouth turning into a thin line of barely withheld horror and Antimodes felt the paralysing cold leave his body. It was a harsh curse, he knew. He could tell from the way Raistlin started to blink more frequently, the way he turned away from them, hiding half of his face behind a golden hand as if sick to the stomach. These signs of weakness (and Antimodes knew Raistlin would regard them as such) would soon vanish, once Raistlin either hardened his heart or started to feel pity and sympathy that encompassed others than himself. Antimodes hoped for the latter, for all of them.

"’Getting used to it’ is not the point of this curse, Raistlin. Learn from it." Par’Salian said, stepping aside to make room for Antimodes to leave Raistlin’s side. His voice was stern, but not unfeeling.

"It will certainly help me draw some... conclusions," Raistlin said caustically, letting his stare linger, forcing himself to endure the horrors that must be unfolding in front of his cursed vision to prove his point.

The silence was almost deafening and Antimodes presumed, had Par’Salian been anyone else, Raistlin would have felt how much strenght there was still left in the old man’s backhand.

"Out," was all the head of the conclave said, however and with a terrible wheeze, Raistlin stood up, spine rigid with a tight grip on the Staff of Magus. His knuckles turned white as he tried to hold back his temper - or another cough.

"Master, I-"

"You should go, Raistlin. Your brother is certainly waiting for you. You will need your strength for the journey laying ahead tomorrow." Raistlin froze at the mention of his brother and Antimodes bit his tongue.

"As you wish. Good day. Master Antimodes. Master Par’Salian." The door behind him closed with the sharp jerk of a slim hand, leaving Antimodes stunned and a little mournful, although he could not exactly tell for whom.

"Should I have not said anything?"

"Do not worry, old friend." Par’Salian said, staring out of the window, watching the grey veil of rain fall upon Wayreth forest. "He needed to be reminded. It were his decisions that lead him to this point. Nobody comes out the test’s forging fire unscathed."

"This sword will cut both ways." Antimodes said carefully, pouring himself a glass of water.

Par’Salian chuckled. "Yes... He still needs to learn how to use his powers. But let us not speak of the unfortunate events that lie ahead of us. Come, play a game with me." Par’Salian gestured for the other mage to take a seat at the small desk where he put up the small figures on the board. Antimodes was only too glad to follow suit and seated himself, eyeing the board with more interest than was strictly necessary.

"Now, tell me. What have you learned during your travels?"

And Antimodes told him.



Prompt: Caramon(/Raistlin)
Fandom: Dragonlance
For: miarr, salty_catfish


Antimodes closed the door carefully, dimming the sounds of pain from within the small room. And ran straight into Caramon Majere.

"How is... how is-“, the tall man said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He was pale, a gaunt look to his otherwise handsome face, and there was a shadow in his eyes, giving him the appearance of someone haunted. It made Antimodes only too aware of the recent happenings and he heaved a sigh.

"He will be alright. Your brother is stronger than you give him credit for," Antimodes said, patting the young man’s shoulder in sympathy.

"I need to, I mean..."

"I’m afraid that is impossible right now. He is not in the right state to-"

"I don’t care."

"Caramon, listen-"

"No, you listen. First you force him to take this awful test-"

"We would never force-"

"And then... and then you let this happen. It’s all your fault that he’s... like, like this. And I have a right to see him." The young man gained more confidence during his rant, jabbing one strong finger into Antimodes’ chest. "I’m his twin, you don’t know anything." He drew strength from his statement, straightening up to his full height. "I’m his twin," repeating, he shoved the mage aside, reaching for the handle but Antimodes’ hand slapped against the wood, keeping the door locked.

"I think we need to talk first."

"There is nothing to talk about." Caramon refused to look at the other man, staring with unseeing eyes at the oaken door, leading to the guest room where his brother lay recovering slowly from the after-effects of the test and something else. Something the mages kept carefully hidden from him.

"Your brother k-"

"Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare." Antimodes took a step back, raising his hands in a placating manner. Caramon was a gentle man, but when provoked, he could be fierce and dangerous, especially where his brother was concerned. “He was out of his mind, he was hurt. In pain. He didn’t know what he was doing."

"I think your brother knew ex-"

"No. No, he did not. How could he? He has not been himself ever since- This wasn’t the Raistlin I know." Despite his anger at the Majere brother for denying what was right in front of him, Antimodes also felt a stab of great sorrow when he saw him pinching his closed eyes with his fingers, holding back the tears and breathing out in a sigh, fighting for control. Antimodes had to tell himself that it had been for the best that Caramon had witnessed what Raistlin was truely capable of, no matter how cruel it seemed to the both of them.

"This wasn’t Raistlin," Caramon whispered furiously. "It wasn’t real. None of this is real. He needs me."

No, Antimodes thought. You do. He could not force Caramon to acknowledge the truth about his brother and about himself. His only hope was that it would come with time and that Caramon would understand soon for his own sake. This codependency was unhealthy, destroying them both from within and Antimodes feared that it would be Caramon whose spirit would be broken and left to die at the end of their shared road.

Antimodes watched helplessly as the young man entered the small guestroom, watched as Caramon barely managed to withhold his own moan of agony upon seeing his twin lying broken on the pallet; bare chest wrapped in blood-stained bandages, the fever giving his strangely coloured skin an unhealthy sheen.

"Raist." He seated himself on the edge of the mattress, careful of the sudden shift in weight, and stroked the now white hair, holding his brother’s hollow cheek in one large palm. Raistlin reached for his elbow reflexively and tried to pull himself up.

"Brother...," the coarse whisper sounded relieved and as he awkwardly hugged Caramon, a cough shook his haggard body violently, sharp shoulder blades casting dark shadows over his back. It seemed as if only Caramon's strong arms held him together.

"What have they done to you..."

Antimodes had to close the door, unable to watch the brutal tenderness in Caramon’s face any longer.



Prompt: Xanatos/Owen
Fandom: Gargoyles
For: mcruthless, miarr


There was a loud crack, like a thunderstorm within the confines of an elevator shaft, echoing on and on and David Xanatos looked up from his paperwork, frowning. When only silence followed for seemingly endless minutes, he got up from his chair and pried into the hallway leading down from his office to the trophy room. There was an unnatural glow spilling from under the high double doors and Xanatos eyed the secret panel on the castle wall, reaching out with one hand. Just in case.

When he burst into the lit trophy room, phaser canon in both his hands ready to blast away any intruder (or gargoyle), Puck had been the last thing he had expected.

"Now that’s just disappointing." Xanatos shifted the weight of the heavy canon blaster to his left shoulder, one eyebrow arched in half-annoyance. The sprite was hovering in midair pouring over the Grimorum with the Phoenyx gate in nervous hands and not at all surprised by his sudden appearance.

"Yes, well," Puck drawled, floating down. The motion of his movements did not seem to stop there, however. Like a ripple, it started from where his feet had just touched the ground, up to his legs that elongated, to the hip and chest, now broader, losing all the androgyny of the sprite. At last, his face became stern, angular, and less playful with a stately nose as his hair was sucked back into his skull.

"There were some complications I had not... foreseen," Owen said, reaching for his glasses in the inside pocket of his jacket, his stone fist useless at his side.

Xanatos’ tapping fingers on the carbon casing of his gun made any comment redundant and he had the rare pleasure of seeing Owen fidget.

"It is very undignified to open the Grimorum’s fastening with... one’s teeth. Sir." He cleared his throat self-consciously and Xanatos had difficulties holding back a shark-toothed smirk. He was not succeeding, judging by the way Owen was turning red with embarrassment.

"What were you hoping to achieve?" He put the gun on the desk and bent down to retrieve the two artifacts from the floor, putting them back into their casing at the trophy room’s opposite wall.

"Research. I apologize for the inconveniences caused."

"On what?" The casing gave a satisfying click as he snapped the lock back into place, small blue lights blinking around the glass box once he typed a new code into the control panel. They turned green as he hit enter and there was a hissing noise as a vacuum was built up within, drowning out Owen’s mumbled reply.

"What was that, Owen?"

"Spells." Xanatos turned around at that, one eyebrow almost receding in his hairline. "Never mind, sir. I did not find what I was looking for." It was rare for Owen to shirk a direct answer and Xanatos did not give him the satisfaction of a response. Staring imploringly at him usually did the trick.

"For my fist," Owen added tersely after a brief staring contest, but it was the casual way Xanatos was leaning against the showcase, feet crossed at the ankles that made him admit his shame.

"Can’t you-" Xanatos made a gesture, indicating him from top to bottom.

"No. As Owen, I cannot lift the curse without a spell. As Puck, there is no curse to lift."

"A predicament, I gather."

"Quite."

Xanatos crossed his arms over his chest, regarding his personal assistant who was standing in the middle of the room as if awaiting some form of judgment. He shook his head not unkindly.

"It’s becoming you, Owen. It gives you an edge. Men in our positions must turn their deficiencies to their advantage. Don’t let it bother you." He pushed himself away from the display cabinet to walk over to Owen. He gave him a slight pat on the shoulder. "It certainly does not bother me."

Owen lowered his gaze and stared at the cold stone that his arm had become; a necessary sacrifice, one he would be willing to make again, despite all. "I see. It won’t happen again." He felt there was something more to add to that, but his throat was uncomfortably tight and nothing would come out.

"It’s only human to be afraid, Owen." With a grin, Xanatos boxed his biceps as if chummy, making light of his worries.

"Thank you, sir," he said stiffly, arms crossed behind his back and staring at a point past the other man’s shoulder.

"Very good." Xanatos noted the time, his wristwatch reflecting the ceiling light in a glare. "Now you’ll have to excuse me. It’s almost seven. I got a date with Fox at Tony’s. Don’t expect me to be back early."

"Mr. Xanatos." Owen bowed his head slightly, waiting until Xanatos had turned his back to him before he squeezed the place on his arm where warm skin turned to unyielding rock.

The other man was already at the double doors when he turned around again, as if he remembered soemthing he had forgotten to mention. "Owen," there was hard look to his eyes, face stern and imperative. "I’d rather not have you touch my property without my consent again. It’s old. It can be easily damaged."

"Of course, Mr. Xanatos."



Prompt: Aladdin/Mozenrath
Fandom: Aladdin
For: miarr, casex_y


Aladdin has always known that Mozenrath is not as healthy as him by any means. Where he is prowess and strength, Mozenrath is cunningness and foul play. They are complete opposites, inevitably drawn towards one another and where Aladdin bathes in light, Mozenrath is brooding in shadow - with a pallor going into the white, such stark a contrast to Aladdin’s own tanned skin.

Before, he has never had time to reflect on some of these particular features. There had simply been no opportunity; Mozenrath’s concealing clothes never left any room for stolen glimpses of bare skin, no chances for misguided fantasies. It is only now, as he watches his own swarthy hand trailing down from a long, smooth throat to a creamy torso that he looks. Really looks, as much as he has always wanted to but never dared, always too caught up in the heat of fight and animosity.

With his delicate build, Mozenrath constantly leaves the impression that a strong shove might knock him out completely, but whenever Aladdin pulls him around or pushes him back into the mattress, he does not seem so feeble anymore. And for all his struggle for superiority, Mozenrath’s meek demeanor comes perhaps as the greatest surprise and Aladdin cannot help but marvel at it as the man beneath him bites the thumb that’s wantonly running over his bottom lip. Moving under his hands in a way that suggests that he wants to be owned and Aladdin has never truly owned anything. Even now that he is married to Jasmine, the kingdom does not belong to him. He still cannot do what he pleases; he is still trapped and always reminded of his humble roots. He holds no power and the only way to validate himself is to be a selfless hero.

But being selfless rarely pays off, for during their fights, Mozenrath makes him feel dumb and uneducated with his eloquent words that can cut to the core. All he can do is hear him out or punch him. But when they’re like this, it’s Mozenrath who listens while Aladdin whispers into his ear, drawing forth a choked moan when he confronts the sorcerer with things they both deny any other day, given back a kind of control Mozenrath does not need nor want.

After the sinister magic-user has had his wicked way with him, Aladdin will remember his place and their hate and all the differences that make these forbidden things impossible even if he cannot help but fall victim to them again and again and again. And deep down he is afraid that one day all Mozenrath will have to do is gesture with a slender hand and he will succumb to all the things he is not.



Prompt: One Piece
Fandom: One Piece
For: hideincarnate


"I told you I’m not a shipwright."

Ussopp swore under his breath, hitting the nail with more force than was necessary. Had he been anyone but his own weak self, the hammer would probably have been broken by now. He reached out with one hand, waiting for Chopper to hand him another plank.

"You are doing well, Usopp-san," the little reindeer said but he was not listening to him. His knees hurt, his shoulder hurt and he was hungry. He hated this job that was not his job in the first place. Luffy really needed to find them a new nakama, one who was a shipwright, one who knew what he was doing. But all Luffy wanted was a musician in their crew. Damn Luffy.

"And I told you not to fight in the sleeping quarters."

"He started it," Zoro said, eyes covered with his bandana, arms behind his back as he lay in the hammock. He was slightly rocking back and forth with the movement of the ship as it made its way through the waves.

"Shut up," Usopp interjected before Sanji had a chance to reply. The cook fell back on the couch, a raw steak over his black eye, obviously fuming. "Just shut up."

"It could be worse," Chopper said carefully as he handed him yet another plank. Hammering away, Ussopp frowned.

"I have no idea what I am doing. Damnit all. This ship is a mess."

"Looks good to me," Zoro was chancing a look at him from under his bandana.

"What would you know; you just lie around all day. It’s your fault."

"It’s not." Ussopp threw the hammer at him and even though Zoro could have easily deflected it, he let it hit him. It did not hurt that much in the first place. He probably felt guilty. Going Merry was in a bad state, they all knew and it was just a question of time until even Ussopp would have to admit that no matter how much they loved their ship, their most loyal nakama had long passed her prime.

"I’m sorry," Sanji began. "I’ll make it up t-"

"Cooking me pudding won’t repair Going Merry, Sanji," Ussopp said sadly, patting the planks he had repaired. "Alright, I’m done." Groaning, he got up from his knees. They ached badly and he knew there would be bruises by tomorrow. "Be more careful next time," he glowered at them with Chopper chanting in a "RIGHT!" The hatch closed with a loud, angry thud behind the two of them and Sanji and Zoro avoided eye contact, both staring in different directions. How were they ever going to tell Ussopp that Luffy was already on the look-out for a new ship? This was going to be a disaster.