Luffy, as blunt and oblivious as can be, shares his thoughts with no mind to how they may affect the people around him. “People” being Sanji, in this case.
Sanji let him stay in the kitchen while he made snacks for the crew because he promised to behave. Luffy watches from the dining table as Sanji slices into a fresh tangerine before speaking what’s on his mind.
“You know. Roronoa Sanji sounds pretty good.”
The cook nearly slices his finger off with how violently he jerks at that. He whirls around to face his mindless captain, knuckles turning white from his death grip on the knife. “I’m SORRY?”
Luffy doesn’t react. His tone remains even and thoughtful.
“Well you need a last name now, right? So take Zoro’s,” he says like it’s so obvious.
“Luffy, I can’t just—” he pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe Luffy just doesn’t understand it. It’s no fault of his, the cook supposes, considering his less-than-typical upbringing. He sighs, trying to ignore the burning of his cheeks.
“Luffy. Do you know why people take other people’s last names?”
He nods. “Of course. It’s because they love each other and want to get married, right?”
Sanji stops breathing. What the fuck. So Luffy knew the whole time and yet he still— so that means he thinks that he and Zoro should—
…Someone please just end him.
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more incorrect quotes for the stillborn danyal au - dpxdc
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Student: so like,, *gesturing to Plasmius* is he like,,, your dad or...??
Phantom: he would be if he wasn't such a BITCH
Plasmius: excuse me
Phantom: YOU HEARD ME
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Under the Bleachers: Danny and Dash smoking in solidarity
Dash:
Danny:
Dash: do you have notes from Lancer's class today
Danny: since when do I ever have notes from Lancer's class
Danny: I can ask Tucker but only if you have notes from Abernathy's class
Dash: deal
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Sam and Tucker: *making s'mores with Danny's lava hair*
Danny, as Phantom: >:I
Sam: you're just mad because you didn't think of it first
Danny: yEAH
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Danny, freshly ghosted: ....
Danny: well. at least i dont need to waste money on lighters anymore
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Tucker: with how long your hair gets we may just have to start calling you rapunzel
Danny: don't you dare
Sam: rapunzel, rapunzel, let down your lava hair
Danny: NO
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Danny's hair tie breaks in the middle of a fight
Danny: fuck
Skulker: language child
Danny, pushing lava bangs out of his face: fuck you! just for this im turning your suit into molten slag
Skulker: waitholdonwecantALK--
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Danny: you know, by your logic Maddie is equally as guilty for abandoning you as Jack. She also never visited you while you were in the hospital.
Vlad, had put his infatuation with Maddie aside but still kinda had feelings for her:
Vlad: you're right
Danny, not used to an adult agreeing with him: I-- huh, I am?
Vlad: yes. If Dr. Walker had cared about me -- even if only as a friend, she would have tried to remain in contact with me. But she didn't. She is also as equally guilty for the accident that took your life too since she also failed to properly check over the portal for flaws and any improper wiring.
Danny: wait- wait, i mean--
Vlad: this means only one thing
Danny, bewildered: ???
Vlad, extinguishing all lingering feelings: I have to kill her too (somehow)
Danny: nO.
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I can't stop thinking about Colin on his travels. Colin, alone, on a journey to 17 different cities, across several countries. Colin on his own.
Colin who writes letter after letter, to his family, to his friends, and barely gets a response back. How long before he understands that they didn't get lost in the mail? How long until he realizes that, just like when he was a boy, no one has the time for him? The space for him? How many letters unanswered before he lets it finally take root and fester in his mind?
He could have died on that tour.
Would they even notice? Would they see when the letters slow until they cease? Would they wonder why? His mum, surely (maybe, possibly, but she has enough on her hands, besides, and he's never been a concern, in need of her assistance, before), but anyone else? Anthony on his honeymoon, Eloise a stormcloud personified, Benedict taking on the familial responsibilities, Fran preparing for the marriage mart and in Bath, regardless. Daphne, his closest sister, a mum running her own estate.
Greg and Hyacinth who enjoy his stories, but are children.
Pen who ignores him. No explanation, no goodbye.
Colin who has no one in his corner. Colin who travels city to city, putting on personas. Will they like me? What about now? Colin who has hardly anything to read from the people he loves. Who do not think of him.
And yet he thinks of them. Brings them back gifts, writes his recollections for them until it hits him that, oh, they don't care. They don't care what he's doing, how he's doing. They didn't want to hear it before, when he was there with them, and they do not want to hear it now, either. Did they even open those envelopes? Did they see them come through the post, just as proof he's alive, and shrug off the contents? Did they look? Once, Colin sends an empty page. No one notices. Easier, then, to send just the outsides. People only ever care about the outsides. Pretty and prim in neat packages, uncaring of what lies beneath. Sea sick on the rocking boats, staring up at stars on the continent, Colin grows aware, but not bitter. Sad, but resigned.
He loves his family, he loves Pen, loves them to grace, loves them to it's okay. It was him, he determines. Too chatty, his letters too long, uninteresting, his passions dull or droll, or else, worse, he's displeased them in some way. Colin who takes refuge in stranger's arms and homes, who dreams and tries to sate his curiosity. Colin who pretends, because anyone, anyone but him would be received better, he's sure of it. Colin who must talk too much, surely, and with no one to listen. Colin who learns to hush.
Yes. Remarkable- as in, I have many remarks about it.
How many times did he go to excitedly write of what he did that week, and stopped himself, knowing it was a waste? How many times did he write and throw into the fire a letter asking Why don't you see me? Why don't you care?
If he didn't make it, how long would it take for anyone to notice? A month? Two? A year? Would they wave it off as his frivolity, denounce him as a flake and fume about the funds? Would they wonder where it was he had lost himself off at?
He cannot fall into that, so, he writes in his journal, instead. Of the ache of it, of how he longs for connection, for understanding, for someone to take him seriously. He keeps it with him, this log of his discontent, of his folly and felicity, of his pitfalls and pains.
If he didn't make it, would they realize all that's left of him is what he sent them, not even a body to bury? Did he look over the side of a bow of a boat and look at the churn of the ocean and think of how many bones it held? Did he tip his face to the sun? How many new scars did he earn? Who did he befriend?
Who did he become?
Somewhere along the line, Colin learned. He learned the real him wasn't wanted.
Somewhere along the line, somewhere between Patmos and Paris, Colin left Colin behind.
And, somewhere along the line, Colin laid face to face with loneliness in his bed, and it wrapped its arms around him.
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