#scttleforme01.

[jargn-blog]

         “Whenever you feel like addressing the elephant in the room, you’ve got my undivided attention.”

@scttleforme.

[sexistterm-blog]

@scttleforme​.

Drabble Prompts: Cibophobia: My muse cooks a meal for yours. || @sexistterm

       “YOU look a little tired.” It’s an understatement, considering that they’d been having marathon sex for the past few days – honestly, Greg doesn’t know how he’s still standing right now, too. “Let me make you the Serrano famous pancakes, Bunch.” He grins warmly. He likes this. Sure, he’s still in love with her, and she only wants him for sex, but he can deal with this! Honestly, it’s the best thing that’s happened to him. Ever. Screw Josh, right? Maybe one day Rebecca will LOVE him. Maybe the way to her heart is through her stomach!       Greg saunters to the kitchen, humming to himself, in surprisingly a good mood. He raids her cabinets for the ingredients – he needs to make them from SCRATCH or else they wouldn’t be right. She’s got everything he needs, flour, sugar, even vanilla. “I promise, these’ll cheer you right up.” He turns to look at her, giving her a warm smile as he whisks the ingredients together. “These have been passed down the Serrano family for generations. Old Grandma Serrano used to make them for her kids, and my dad for me.” Greg puts the stove on, putting a little butter onto his pan. After fifteen minutes, he has a STACK of big, fluffy pancakes ready to be devoured. He puts the plate down in front of her. “For the lady,” he grins stupidly – he feels great satisfaction for doing something as small as this for her.

Rebecca’s the kind of sore a handful of aspirin and an under-the-pajamas heating pad aren’t going to touch. She pats Greg below the shoulder blade on her way to the table ( and boy, is lowering herself into the chair a PROCESS ) and thinks very little about the consequences of a move so domestic. It’s how she is with him: always inside her own comfort zone, but just outside of his. Just enough to string him along without surrendering blissful ignorance.

The guilt should swallow her whole when she mentally superimposes an image of Josh over Greg at her kitchen counter, but it doesn’t. She blinks long and hard and presses the heel of her palm into her eyelid. An ugly groan comes next.

         “These smell amazing,” she says, soon as he’s sitting down, and stretches out in order to rub her bare feet against his shins. “You’re eating, too, right? God, Greg, these smell amazing.”