#funnily enough

Romantic Locales

After a few all the bite is gone from the winter air. It doesn’t quite make it to soft, but the shock of it is stripped, just a vague acknowledgement of cold as you step outside, pull your coat up around your neck. She’d wanted a smoke. He’d wanted a little privacy, to swap background conversation for background traffic. 

It meant he was in tow, rather than leading. She was his excuse, the reason he could get away from the revelry for a few moments, a minute or two, and so she took the lead. He was half cut and happy, so he didn’t mind in the least, although he could tell by the way she hesitantly ventured out into the carpark that she was half waiting for him to pounce on her. It amused him more to do the opposite, for the moment. 

They sat on a low wall, a few feet off the ground, and he watched her face light up with a faint orange glow as the cigarette flared. She exhaled out of the left of her mouth, the smoke hijacked by the wind, tossed into nothing in no time at all. Her eyes glittered in the dark. 

“Slap me.” The words came as a surprise, only for a softening ‘Please’ to be added, forthwith. 

“But you’ve done nothing wrong.” The Yorkshire always seemed to rear its head once he had alcohol in his veins. She took another drag on the cigarette, then tossed it, stubbed it out before taking his hand in hers, fingertips digging into the leather of his glove. 

“As if that matters. I want to feel it, here, outside. Sting of your hand, sting of the wind, all of it at once.” She lifted his hand, brought it up to her face, and pressed his palm against her cheek. He could barely feel the warmth of her skin through the glove. 

“Well as you’ve asked so sweetly…” He trailed off, and he started to pull the hand away from her face, felt a little resistance in her palm, and then he brought the other hand up, quickly, slapping it against her other cheek. She let out a little squeal of surprise, before biting her lip and smiling.

“Harder." 

The wind was growing stronger, as if made eager by the sudden private violence it was an uninvited witness to. He hesitated, had to think, to evaluate whether he wanted to do what she wanted him to do. Wanted to see if the thought of her actually reeling from a slap was something he wanted to see. It would certainly be new, and her cheek would certainly flush, red against the pale chill of the rest of her skin. And she’d bite her lip again, just as she had done before. 

He drew his hand back, and she caught him by surprise again.

"Really hard, please.”

The Quiet Bits

It’s never going to be the moments when you’re fucking that you remember, as good as they are. They’re transient, a repetitive motion where each thrust compounds it down a little more, forming this diamond of a memory that is full of sensations, but none of them distinct. A general sexy grin that lets you know that you want to do it again, just so you can refresh each and every second of it. Know what it feels like in the midst of it.

But you’re never thinking, then. It’s the moments before you go to sleep, where your memory is just a blank space, too far gone into slumber to clock any of what’s happening. No, what you remember are the spaces in between, the lulls of the ocean when its calm rather than the crash of the waves against the shores. It’s when everything pauses for a moment and you collapse against the bed, sweaty and panting.

When you look at me and smile, and your brain suddenly wakes up from its primal enjoyment of the physicality of it all, and starts to pay attention. That’s what you remember, when you look back on that night and smile. It’s the time when your brain had enough prescience to record, rather than just play over and over. When you had a moment to think. 

So don’t you worry, Princess. I’ll make sure there’s plenty of calm moments for all the dreadfully exciting ones.