…And then they don’t really talk about it for a week.
Not after they return home after the shopping trip (and paying for the ruined watermelon), not on Saturday when she declares that riding is a tradition and proceeds to convince him of it, not on Sunday when he wakes up to discover her sprawled across most of the bed, not on Monday when he narrowly avoids making public sex another tradition, not on Tuesday when he absolutely fails to avoid her in the park, not on Wednesday when he awkwardly ends up serenading her over half a glass of wine, not on Thursday when he grabs his gun from her hands before she can do any serious damage…
No.
It’s not until next Friday, after a rather nice dinner with her parents, that the subject is continued. Not at the most inappropriate of times, granted, but still just after her parents have left the room (to go and sit in front of the TV, and yell insults at the conservative government – so far they’re honestly the most liberal couple that he’s ever met, but their ability to blame Cameron for absolutely everything is something entirely fearsome to behold).
“So,” Chris beams, moving to close the door before him just as he’s about to follow the king and queen of bashing, “you still haven’t given me head.”
He stares at her for a moment.
Stares at her properly for a moment.
“Chris,” and then speaks very slowly, half wondering what would happen if he just gave up and charged the doorknob, “what have we said about being inappropriate?”
“Nothing much,” she beams cheerfully, taking a flirtatious step towards him in her short dress and high heels and- she planned this.
And it is for that reason, as well as the selective deafness in any situation that doesn’t suit her, that he flatly stares. Even as she comes closer and closer with that incredibly unfair expression (the one designed to seduce anybody with a pulse) flashing in her big, brown eyes.
“No, really,” and even as she pauses right before him, with a pout starting to tremble and an imploring expression starting to grow, “We didn’t say much after I rode you that time-“
“…Well.”
“-Or after I pinned you against that wall at work and ravished you-“
“You ran off-!”
“-Or after you slammed me against that kitchen cabinet and gave me bruises that have only just faded-“
“I do recall a few words before that…”
“-Or when I rode you on the sofa again-“
“…Well.”
“-Or when we did it in the park with one of your colleagues watching-“
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timeasmymeasure
UNPROMPTED: Gotta Get Down on Friday, Girl!Chris/Tim, NC-17 [2A/2]
Date: 2011-10-26 09:13 pm (UTC)Not after they return home after the shopping trip (and paying for the ruined watermelon), not on Saturday when she declares that riding is a tradition and proceeds to convince him of it, not on Sunday when he wakes up to discover her sprawled across most of the bed, not on Monday when he narrowly avoids making public sex another tradition, not on Tuesday when he absolutely fails to avoid her in the park, not on Wednesday when he awkwardly ends up serenading her over half a glass of wine, not on Thursday when he grabs his gun from her hands before she can do any serious damage…
No.
It’s not until next Friday, after a rather nice dinner with her parents, that the subject is continued. Not at the most inappropriate of times, granted, but still just after her parents have left the room (to go and sit in front of the TV, and yell insults at the conservative government – so far they’re honestly the most liberal couple that he’s ever met, but their ability to blame Cameron for absolutely everything is something entirely fearsome to behold).
“So,” Chris beams, moving to close the door before him just as he’s about to follow the king and queen of bashing, “you still haven’t given me head.”
He stares at her for a moment.
Stares at her properly for a moment.
“Chris,” and then speaks very slowly, half wondering what would happen if he just gave up and charged the doorknob, “what have we said about being inappropriate?”
“Nothing much,” she beams cheerfully, taking a flirtatious step towards him in her short dress and high heels and- she planned this.
And it is for that reason, as well as the selective deafness in any situation that doesn’t suit her, that he flatly stares. Even as she comes closer and closer with that incredibly unfair expression (the one designed to seduce anybody with a pulse) flashing in her big, brown eyes.
“No, really,” and even as she pauses right before him, with a pout starting to tremble and an imploring expression starting to grow, “We didn’t say much after I rode you that time-“
“…Well.”
“-Or after I pinned you against that wall at work and ravished you-“
“You ran off-!”
“-Or after you slammed me against that kitchen cabinet and gave me bruises that have only just faded-“
“I do recall a few words before that…”
“-Or when I rode you on the sofa again-“
“…Well.”
“-Or when we did it in the park with one of your colleagues watching-“
“…Oh God.”