that's it that's the joke
1/5/20 02:34![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scubatankfilledwithfartsMost of the arguments against his retaining of the master and spare keys to the fridge are easily brushed off, stupid, and plain petty. Sanji lets it pass through one ear and out the other as easily as blood through his nose and onto his expensive sense of dignity.
But the one Nami provides tiredly, after being whined at for the past hour, makes him pause. She sighs and lowers the paper, dutifully avoids the puppy dog eyes of one captain and one reindeer pointed her way. The things she goes through to get to this point, his poor precious Nami.
“Alright, worst case scenario: if something happens to you,” He ignores the almost-whoop, monotone of course, of joy from the crappy swordsman in the background; his attention is all for their navigator, “shouldn’t one of us have the key? What if they can’t get into the fridge? In this scenario let’s say I’m not here.”
His chest burns for various reasons—she’s so worried about his well being! She’s so merciful, too, to the rest of their stupid, rotten crew (minus Robin naturally), that he has to give a little wiggle at the thought of her crying over him…oh, it’d be so heartbreaking! But it’d be for him…but he’d never see Nami or Robin again! Ohhh, but maybe they’d keep some of his clothes in their rooms, for remembrance, and sl-sl-sleep with a jacket or a shirt of his tucked between their—
Sanji feels something wet dribble down his chin. He inhales blood deeply.
“Oh Nami-san! If I die, I don’t care who else is there, as long as you sleep with my underw—as long as you’re there,” he squeals, beside himself.
[The] Nami [in his imagination] smiles. Beautiful, stunning, art has never done what Nami has just by being!
“Sanji-kun, of course she’ll be there. The murderer always shows up to throw off the authorities,” Robin says from her perch atop the stairs, her smile radiant above the rim of her coffee cup.
Sanji’s eyes shine—she’ll be there! That’s all that matters to him. The real Nami grimaces as if she’s stepped in wet dog crap with no shoes on. Both feet.
With a flourish the cook wiggles and floats to her side, gets on one knee, and presents a tray of meticulously made sandwiches.
“If I’m dead then these assholes have been dead for weeks!”
But the one Nami provides tiredly, after being whined at for the past hour, makes him pause. She sighs and lowers the paper, dutifully avoids the puppy dog eyes of one captain and one reindeer pointed her way. The things she goes through to get to this point, his poor precious Nami.
“Alright, worst case scenario: if something happens to you,” He ignores the almost-whoop, monotone of course, of joy from the crappy swordsman in the background; his attention is all for their navigator, “shouldn’t one of us have the key? What if they can’t get into the fridge? In this scenario let’s say I’m not here.”
His chest burns for various reasons—she’s so worried about his well being! She’s so merciful, too, to the rest of their stupid, rotten crew (minus Robin naturally), that he has to give a little wiggle at the thought of her crying over him…oh, it’d be so heartbreaking! But it’d be for him…but he’d never see Nami or Robin again! Ohhh, but maybe they’d keep some of his clothes in their rooms, for remembrance, and sl-sl-sleep with a jacket or a shirt of his tucked between their—
Sanji feels something wet dribble down his chin. He inhales blood deeply.
“Oh Nami-san! If I die, I don’t care who else is there, as long as you sleep with my underw—as long as you’re there,” he squeals, beside himself.
[The] Nami [in his imagination] smiles. Beautiful, stunning, art has never done what Nami has just by being!
“Sanji-kun, of course she’ll be there. The murderer always shows up to throw off the authorities,” Robin says from her perch atop the stairs, her smile radiant above the rim of her coffee cup.
Sanji’s eyes shine—she’ll be there! That’s all that matters to him. The real Nami grimaces as if she’s stepped in wet dog crap with no shoes on. Both feet.
With a flourish the cook wiggles and floats to her side, gets on one knee, and presents a tray of meticulously made sandwiches.
“If I’m dead then these assholes have been dead for weeks!”