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]

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.]

[samson]

[Hey, he just wanted to bone her! She's the one who brought marriage into the equation. Sigh.

Brock just sort of ... stands there ... struggling with his slowly burgeoning erection. Damn it, penis, stop! This is dinnertime, not sexual frustration time.]

Okay.

[The sauce is starting to bubble. You need to turn the heat down, Samson.]

[molotov]

Okay.

[She pulls away, to go sit on the counter again, so that he can not burn the hell out of the food.]

[samson]

[Brock spends a minute just standing there stupidly, then shakes his head and swallows hard, brow furrowing as he forces himself to focus on cooking again. Goddammit, woman.

He adds some pepper and salt to the marinara, and stirs the pasta.]

Uh, did you want this al dente, or ...

[molotov]

Whatever. You are making dinner, baby, you decide.

[samson]

[But ... no ... that's why cooking is such a big deal for him, he likes to give people he cares about what they want! In the least emotionally-embarrassing way possible.]

Okay. [So, he'll let the pasta cook for a little longer, and reaches over to put his hand on her knee.]

[molotov]

[But she would rather let him decide, that way it's a meal ~from his heart~!

Molotov leans over to kiss his temple.]

[samson]

[No, it's a meal from her laziness. There is a difference.

Brock idly stirs the sauce and covers it, then turns to brush some hair out of her face.]

There anything you want to do before Sunday?

[molotov]

[Molotov shakes her head a little bit, and smiles at him.]

Nothing special. You?

[samson]

[He just smirks. Stupid question!]

Well, yeah. But if I waited this long, a few more days isn't gonna kill me.

[molotov]

[She pinches him!]

You know what I meant.