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]

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.

[molotov]

[She rolls her eye a little.]

I promise that, if you show serious signs of dying, I will make sure you go happy.

[samson]

Well, I don't want a pity handjob, Molotov.

[This is said easily; he's not really being serious.

Because who are we kidding, he'd take any kind of handjob from her.]

Can you stir the sauce and then turn off the heat?

[molotov]

If you are going to die, I will do more than that.

[But she hops down and does as he says.]

[samson]

[He eyes her a little. Yesssss, Molotov doing domestic things. This is Brock's fetish.

Also, he pauses for ... probably longer than is normal after that. Just considering. Sex in five days or immediate dying sex? DECISIONS.]

Well, I'd come back after three weeks ...

[molotov]

But then we will not be married, and I will never do it again.

[samson]

[fffffffff he runs his hand down his face.]

Can we move the wedding? Or get a time machine?

[molotov]

[SNORT] Even you cannot be so desperate that you cannot wait five days.

[samson]

Try me.

[molotov]

Do I need to add some saltpeter to the sauce, dear?

[samson]

[PETULANTLY.] No. I can control myself.

[molotov]

[She just laughs and kisses his cheek.]

[samson]

[Brock continues to pout like the child he is for a minute, just frowning. That was not enough, that was just a friendly kiss! He deserves more than that, for the sake of his poor neglected genitals. He places a hand on her cheek and tilts in to press his lips to hers, his other hand resting on her hip.]

[molotov]

[Molotov places both hands on his chest and makes a soft noise, eye closing.]

[samson]

[He just keeps kissing her!!! He wants kisses more than he wants food, deal with it.

He does slide his hand around her hip after a moment to grab her ass though, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his own eyes fall shut.]

[molotov]

[But Molotov wants food! She keeps kissing him, though she's going to pull away in another moment or two. It's dinnertime, dumb Samson!

[samson]

[What if he just attached himself to her neck like a lamprey? She could still eat.

He doesn't do that though (YET), just presses his tongue into her mouth and idly combs his fingers through her hair.]

[molotov]

[No, he needs to eat too! It's dinner time, Samson.

Molotov kisses him for a few more moments, then gently pulls away and goes to get plates.]

[samson]

[BROCK SOBS OPENLY except no he doesn't, he just gives her his patented Wistful Look™ and sighs. Fuck the pasta, he just wants to make out!]

Do you want bread or anything?

[molotov]

[Don't fuck the pasta, Brock! It will scald your wiener.]

Salad. You do not need more carbs.

[samson]

[Oh okay he's done looking wistful. Now he just squints. Wat ...]

Are you trying to say something?

[molotov]

Just that I have seen what happens when you overindulge.

[samson]

Look -- that was different, okay? I was depressed.

[molotov]

"Depression" made you gain a hundred pounds in nine months?