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]

[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?

[samson]

Maybe, I don't know. I'm not a shrink.

[molotov]

Depression is a terrible excuse for gluttony, Brock.

[samson]

Look -- I don't want to talk about that right now, alright? [Or... ever.

SIGH, he pinches the bridge of his nose to calm down, then goes to the fridge.]

What kind of salad?

[molotov]

I am just explaining why you are not allowed to eat too many empty calories.

Whatever kind you would like to make is fine.

[samson]

[FFF Y U NO GIVE CLEAR DECISION]

Alright, whatever. [greens and cherry tomatoes and you will like it, molotov]

[molotov]

[BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T CARE

Molotov just snorts and starts putting pasta on plates.]

[samson]

[Brock tosses the salad (ha HA..... salad) and then brings it over to put it in bowls.]

[molotov]

[Licking a little sauce off her thumb, Molotov goes to the fridge.] Wine?

[samson]

[He eyes her when she licks her thumb, no stop, and then smiles a little snidely.]

You decide. [YEAH TAKE THAT, BITCH!!!!]

[molotov]

[Wow, that's a poor attempt at snideness.

Molotov just removes a bottle of red from the fridge.]

[samson]

[Well, yes! Because Brock is a dumbass. This is common knowledge!

Brock balances the bowls and plates and takes them over to the table.]

[molotov]

[Molotov takes the bottle and some glasses over there.]

Do you want anything else?

[samson]

[He just smiles, pulling out her chair.]

Nah, it's fine.