And now, back to the Greens
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drunkonust requested Butch being receptive to a lady's bedroom needs, Buttercup specifically. Vaguely nsfw I guess, given the subject matter, but it's all pretty oblique.Apparently I have a thing for the Greens saying 'Come here' to each other. Calling this one Field Notes.
***
“So why isn’t the sex working for you?”
When Butch says this out loud, he’s touched by the fact that Buttercup has the decency to act indignant on his behalf.
“Why would—no, it’s—what are you talking about?” she sputters, her face going scarlet, and he laughs because it’s cute, which maybe is the wrong thing to do, because then she gets indignant on her behalf and says, “Well, it’s not like I need to come to enjoy it,” and then the fucking floor has dropped out from under him and before they know it they’re actually fighting about it, which was not his intention, his intention was to be a good partner, to have a conversation like normal people, to make her happy, for Christ’s sake.
He has to leave and fly around for awhile because at first blush the fight doesn’t seem to be getting them anywhere and it’s not exactly cathartic to be told that he’s not good in bed. He’s up there for a good hour or two, trying to cool off, and when he gets back to her place she’s sitting there in the dark.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says, her head on her knees. “I don’t know how to tell you what I want because I don’t know what I want.”
Nothing’s wrong with you, he thinks, any residual anger melting away. He feels like a fucking idiot.
***
It becomes a project, though his first attempts are a little misguided.
“Watch this,” he says, thrusting his phone in her face, and after the fifth video she screams that if he tries to make her watch another porno she’s going to punch him in his stupid God damn throat.
“Are you into that?” he asks, genuinely serious, and so she punches him in the throat.
Through trial-and-error he discovers that the porn is a no-go and the vibrator just intimidates her, so he switches gears and settles for passive observation.
It has an interesting effect—on him, mostly. He likes her default resting bitch face, the way the corners of her mouth turn towards the ground, and subsequently, how they move up when she catches him sneaking looks at her or when he makes her laugh. He likes the look she gets when she’s flipping through recipes or watching reality cooking shows, alternating between scowls of “What the fuck, who would eat that,” and intense, rapt attention. He likes the way her palm smushes her lips when she’s concentrating, the way she silently mouths the words to her favorite songs, the way her brow immediately furrows and her eyes flash when she hears police sirens or a call comes in on her hotline.
“I like your face,” he tells her, and the corners of her perfect, resting bitch face lips turn up.
“I like your dumb face, too,” she says, and kisses him, open-mouthed.
***
He gets really good at listening without meaning to.
She said she didn’t know what she wants, but it’s only half-true. She just doesn’t know how to say it out loud. So Butch learns how to pay attention.
There’s a certain way she breathes when he does something she likes, a certain sighing quality it takes on. A deepening to it, though different from the way it deepens when she’s losing interest and falling asleep. She never says a word and is careful not to vocalize too much at all, but when she does, oh, how he notices, and learns he should do it again.
She mumbles at him one night, so quietly he nearly misses it because he’s too fixated on the quickening of her pulse underneath his lips on her inner thigh.
“What?” he whispers, stunned by the unexpected magic of this moment, and feels her shudder as his warm breath hits her skin.
“C’mere,” she mumbles again, and then her hand is in his hair, pulling his face up towards hers for a kiss, and her skin is so warm as she arches her body to meet his, so warm and open and soft that he is suddenly elated, thrilled to find he’s done something right, for her.
***
Butch doesn’t know it, but for the first time in his life he is actually studying something and learning.
He knows things that nobody else will, or could. How her palm smushes her lips when his teeth graze her neck. How she silently mouths his name when they kiss. How her brow furrows and her eyes flash in that one incredible moment that he can’t get enough of, that he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to bear witness to.
He knows when to push and when to pull back. He knows where she wants to be touched, where she wants to be kissed. And when. The when is important, too. There’s timing. It’s an art. A language. A small one, yet just as vast and even trickier to learn, with no alphabet or symbols to guide him.
He wants to get better at it, every time he kisses her, touches her, every time he hears her hiss his name against his mouth. He wants to be an expert in his field, because his field is Buttercup, and she is the only world he wants to know.
“Come here,” she says, and he does, knowing exactly what she wants is him.
He studies it and learns, because loving Buttercup is a language. He wants to be the only one to ever speak it.
***
Thank you, as always, for your patience. ♥
YES
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