Will you won't you will you won't you
Characters: Sanji and OPEN
Location: Shockingly not the kitchen because really we are always in there what is with that the front lawn
Time: A few days before the party I have no idea what day it is in game sorry D:
Content: McDerpalot not being a derp. No, he isn't.
Format: Panic prose or action I don't mind.
Warnings: Chefs totally not freaking out.
She's not going to want to.
But she might.
But she can't.
But maybe she'd feel insulted if you didn't ask her; besides, she already knows you like her.
You could get fired you moron.
But it's a gentleman's duty to meet a lady's expectations!
Since when have you been a gentleman when it comes to chasing skir-
Shut up.
Anybody currently witnessing the chef walking in tight circles on his cigarette break resembling a stressed, black-suited locomotive might have understood his cyclic perambulations slightly better if they'd been privy to this mental conversation with himself. Or they may have been more confused. Either would be entirely forgivable.
Whichever was the case the lawn didn't look too happy about the situation, especially as the pyrokinetic's feet were unwittingly heating up under this bout of moebius strip thinking, leaving a small trail of steam in his wake from the previously dew-laden blades of grass.
Location: Shockingly not the kitchen because really we are always in there what is with that the front lawn
Time: A few days before the party I have no idea what day it is in game sorry D:
Content: McDerpalot not being a derp. No, he isn't.
Format: Panic prose or action I don't mind.
Warnings: Chefs totally not freaking out.
She's not going to want to.
But she might.
But she can't.
But maybe she'd feel insulted if you didn't ask her; besides, she already knows you like her.
You could get fired you moron.
But it's a gentleman's duty to meet a lady's expectations!
Since when have you been a gentleman when it comes to chasing skir-
Shut up.
Anybody currently witnessing the chef walking in tight circles on his cigarette break resembling a stressed, black-suited locomotive might have understood his cyclic perambulations slightly better if they'd been privy to this mental conversation with himself. Or they may have been more confused. Either would be entirely forgivable.
Whichever was the case the lawn didn't look too happy about the situation, especially as the pyrokinetic's feet were unwittingly heating up under this bout of moebius strip thinking, leaving a small trail of steam in his wake from the previously dew-laden blades of grass.