beautifuldirtysexy:

Somehow, it always escalated. And it always, without doubt, started with something innocuous. Something that, when seen in the right light, would hardly make sense as the spark for the carnage that followed. 

Perhaps he might switch the channel over on the idle television, only for her to come glance up from the book she was reading with a look of comical anger on her face. Or she would move something on his desk, god forbid, and he would be farcically apoplectic. 

And, try as they might, they couldn’t keep a straight face when they argued. Things always, without fail, devolved into poorly constructed jokes and amusing interludes where one would poke the other, in the belly, on the nose, or aimed for the eye. That would be the start, the tipping point.

Then, as always, he would grab her, and his fingertips would go straight for her sides. He’d lift, she’d yelp and scream and laugh, and he’d pull her to the bedroom, throwing her on the bed. She’d grab the nearest pillow, because she wasn’t going to give up just yet, and she’d catch him square in the face with it. 

Which would probably not end well for her. It never did.

He’d grab a pillow of his own, and within five minutes she was done, exhausted, letting that tired laugh bubble up from her throat as her (well fluffed) pillow hang loosely in her hand. Her chest rising and falling. He was always hypnotised by that movement.

And then he’d kiss her. She’d melt. He’d harden. 

It always worked its way out.