#fun in your pants

Potholes

Things had become familiar with all the fanfare of an assassin, sneaking up on them when they’d thought things were going so well. But two months into the relationship and they were in a rut, the same routine wearing away at their minds with a collective pressure that was only compounding their frustration into something with about as much strength and subtlety of a diamond. 

What had surprised him was that she had made the first move, decided to take the initiative and compress the slowing heart of the relationship until it started to beat a little faster. That night he’d come home to his best suit laying on the bed, an open bottle of whiskey on the side board and the sweetest little note requesting, pleading with him to put on the suit, drink the whiskey, and meet her in the living room. 

For a moment he had bristled, some deep anti-authoritarian urge rising up in the back of his throat, and it was just as unpleasant a taste as any you might imagine. It was her pretty little signature that fought it back down, at once innocent and professional, reverent and playful. The loop of the Y and the casual circle of the I. He smiled, and did as she had asked. 

There was another tumbler of whiskey in the living room, and he could hear her moving around in the kitchen, even catch the odd glimpse of her as she flitted past the half open door. A flash of white, the swish of her hair as she all but danced around, twirling and whirling, an adorable tornado he couldn’t quite enjoy, not yet. 

So he sat, and he sipped, and he waited. Thought, for a while, about exactly what was going on, this odd, pleasant little power reversal that was almost as perverted as it was unexpected. Things would shift, in time, as they always did; their natures were too ingrained for them to not. But for now he was content allowing her to take the lead for once. 

A few minutes passed, and then she stepped in, a blush heavy on her cheeks and a pair of delicate little cupcakes on a plate in her hand. He glanced from them to her face, and then back down a little, the thin white dress she was wearing seeming almost ethereal in the low light of the evening. 

“I baked these for you.” He smiled and nodded, taking another sip of whiskey. Anything more seemed like it might shatter this delicate little scenario she’d created. 

She set them down, and walked over to him, her face tilted down and her eyes flitting from him to the ground, over and over again. She stopped a foot short, and he reached out, fingers playing over the material of her dress. And then he grabbed her, wrist in his hand, and pulled her down onto his lap.

Her body moulded to him like it was made for it, as it always had. But there was something else there, an element that had been missing for weeks. It was showing most clearly in the mutual smile they were sharing, and the crinkle of the smile in the corners of her eyes. It was the way his hands couldn’t help but roam over her, and her’s couldn’t help but cling to him. It was movement, irresistible and unrelenting, a force that kept them both in motion as soon as they touched, like unstable atoms. 

He kissed her, and it was all but a revelation.