[ cooking in a cloud of sugar sweetness, his cigarettes replaced just for the hour with the saccharine box won from the tennis competition earlier in the week, sanji tries his damnedest to focus on icing the sticky date cake as a practice option for aemond's (stupid) request for his nephew's birthday. it's an easy task, one he should conceivably be able to do with his eyes closed. it's icing on a damn cake. and yet his attention keeps wavering to the... thing moving atop the flour-dusted counter top. the shitty swordsman's prize, which is just a pile of moss that may or may not be alive.
in the shape of a goddamn cat.
more specifically, a kitten, because it's tiny. it's just a heap of quivering greenery, moving about curiously, and sanji has already had to scoop it up and place it into a clean mixing bowl just so it wouldn't get in the way or crawl face-first into a knife or find itself in the oven while he worked. he looks at it now, and it looks back at him, and sanji puffs out rose-scented smoke as something clenches in his gut. ]
come get your shitty cat. i'm trying to work. i'll make it into a stir-fry if you don't hurry up.
— mosskitty angst
in the shape of a goddamn cat.
more specifically, a kitten, because it's tiny. it's just a heap of quivering greenery, moving about curiously, and sanji has already had to scoop it up and place it into a clean mixing bowl just so it wouldn't get in the way or crawl face-first into a knife or find itself in the oven while he worked. he looks at it now, and it looks back at him, and sanji puffs out rose-scented smoke as something clenches in his gut. ]
come get your shitty cat.
i'm trying to work. i'll make it into a stir-fry if you don't hurry up.