so don't you let her get under your skin

[samson]

Who: Brock and Molotov
What: Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
When: Weds., 25 April, early evening
Where: Room 509
Rating: Probably PG-13, will edit if necessary :T

[Brock had been spending the majority of his time lately working on his cabin, or rather working on a garage to attach to his cabin so he could put his car somewhere to work on that. It was pretty convoluted, but the point was, he was getting married in less than a week and he should probably spend time with his fiancée instead of dicking around in the woods all the time.

So, it's just around dinnertime when he rolls in through the door. Better late than never, right? That's sort of Brock's philosophy about their whole relationship, which explains things.

Anyway, he shuts the door behind him and calls out for her.]

Hey, kitten? You home?

Comments

[molotov]

[Molotov is doing paperwork. What kind of paperwork? Who the hell knows. She's crazy, she probably just doodles on legal pads and then files it, so she can pretend she owns a functioning business. Anyway, the point is that she's on the couch, listening to music and doing "paperwork". She glances over toward the door when he calls.]

Da.

[samson]

[At least it keeps her busy. Where busy is... you know, not murdering people for fun? Whatever crazy shit she gets up to when she's bored.

At least Brock does constructive things instead of ripping guys' heads off.

Smiling at the sound of her voice, he goes over to the living room.]

Hey. You getting hungry?

[molotov]

[Bears, I guess? She wishes up bears. You guys don't need more bears, Brock.

Molotov glances over the back of the sofa as he approaches.]

Da... if you had not come back, I was going to just go to the Lux again.

[samson]

[Molotov, no. That's too many bears. Just too. Many.]

You eat out too much. [Ha ha.......... eating out.] C'mon, I'll cook something for you. What do you want?

[molotov]

[She likes bears!]

Mm, maybe pasta? I do not know, whatever is fine.

[samson]

[Obviously, she has a fuck ton of them.

Brock just rolls his eyes a little because that's not very helpful, and goes to the kitchen.] What kind of pasta?

[molotov]

I do not care, kroshka, whatever you want to make.

[BROCK THIS IS NOT A GOOD WAY TO START OUT THE NIGHT, STOP BEING A DICK.]

[samson]

[HE CAN'T HELP IT, IT'S HIS NATURAL STATE .......]

Are you going to give me shit if I don't make it from scratch?

[He's already reaching into the pantry for dried noodles, though.]

[molotov]

Nyet, but I might call Ezio to give you shit instead.

[Teasing.......... but seriously, Ezio has a thing about dried pasta.]

[samson]

Molotov, don't be racist.

[Boiling water now .......]

[molotov]

How is that racist?

[She goes into the kitchen and perches on the counter.]

[samson]

Uh. 'cause he's Italian? That'd be like me telling somebody you're goofy for potatoes.

[It's almost like I'm infomoding that one thread but this conversation is just progressing this way!! Go figure.

Meanwhile, Brock is squinting into the pantry. WHICH PASTA.....]

[molotov]

[Molotov frowns.]

But he does hate dried pasta. He told me so, and he got fairly agitated when I suggested that there are perfectly legitimate uses for dried pasta. Apparently, he was so annoyed when another friend of his tried to use it that he just cooked for her, so that they could have fresh pasta instead.

[samson]

As long as he's not cooking for you.

[Because that's Brock's job ...

He finally decides on fusili and puts that in the water once it's boiled.]

Do you want, like ... red sauce, or just with some oil and pepper?

[molotov]

Do not be jealous, Brock.

[She totally won't mack on him until after you're gone! And also until after Ezio goes home for a while and gets older. J/k, j/k.]

Red sauce.

[samson]

[Dont even joke about that, it's horrible! Brock will kill people, just leave a path of decimated bodies. He is sensitive.]

I'm not jealous. [I'm pissed!!! Channelling Bud Manstrong.

Anyway, Brock knows how to make pasta sauce from scratch, unlike pasta itself, so he grabs another pot and heats up some oil. And then he grabs some canned tomatoes, so ... not completely from scratch. Shut up.]

[molotov]

You are jealous, I can tell. What does it matter if he cooks for me? He has not, but who cares if he does? I only love you.

[samson]

Alright, first of all, I'm not jealous. And I just don't want him cooking for you. It's just ... a thing.

[Brock Samson: emotional, irrational dumbfuck.]

[molotov]

Why is it a "thing"? You do not care if I go to restaurants, and something tells me you not care if a woman, or if Cross cooked for me. So this is jealousy.

[samson]

It's their job to cook for you in restaurants. I'm just ... it's like a family thing, alright, to cook for somebody. So ...

[ANGRILY DUMPING TOMATOES INTO THIS SAUCEPAN GRRR]

Never mind, it's dumb. Do what you want.

[molotov]

[Molotov rolls her eye! What a fucking baby. But she slides off the countertop and moves behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.]

Stop it.

looking at my icons, suddenly struck by just how stupid his hair is

[samson]

[Brock is a child. Molotov, you are marrying this.

He just grunts and adds the garlic.]

Why.

[molotov]

[Molotov sounds sad when she answers. She's actually more exasperated than sad, but she's aware that sad works better for manipulation purposes.]

Because I love you, daddy.

[samson]

[Wow what a rude fucking bitch, he can't handle Sad Molotov. How dare you!!

Also jesus christ that's a new pet name. A LONG PAUSE...... casually struggles to keep his loins in check.]

Oh ... uh, okay.

[lmao that can probably be construed as rude but he just doesn't know what to do rn......]

[molotov]

[Well, Brock, this is what you get for wanting to marry such a horribly manipulative bitch. She knows all your weaknesses!]

Da, stop.

[Then she presses her face in between his shoulderblades.]