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

[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.

[samson]

[He just laughs.]

I know, I'm just kidding. That's not gonna stop just 'cause we're married, you know.

[molotov]

I know that.

[samson]

Then don't be so sensitive.

[molotov]

Don't be tasteless.

[But she's leaning closer to him, murmuring.]

[samson]

[He takes the side of her face in his hand, eyelids lowering a bit as he leans in too.]

Don't talk to me about taste, Molotov.

[molotov]

[She just leans in until their foreheads are touching.]

And why not, Brock?

[samson]

[He curls his fingers in a bit and tilts in to kiss her briefly. When he pulls back, his eyes are still hooded, gazing vaguely at her mouth.]

'cause I don't think you understand how much I want to taste you.

[molotov]

[Molotov voice is thick when she answers.]

Five nights, sokol.

[samson]

[He kisses her again, fingers sliding through her hair to hold the back of her head.]

We can't cheat?

[molotov]

Not even a little bit.

[samson]

You can't, uh ... do that thing with your hands?

[molotov]

Not this close.

[samson]

[Tentative smile ...]

I could always move ...

[molotov]

I meant to the date.

[samson]

... oh.

[Damn it. WEH...

He sighs and turns the heat off, carrying the pasta over to the sink to drain it.]

I might have been wrong. A few days might kill me.