Chapter Text
Couch
by Rosha
You know, this couch is not comfy at all. It is kinda hard, and lumpy. I can't seem to settle down in it. I just got to keep shifting, can't be at ease.
It's a bloody piece of junk. Should've gotten rid of it years ago, right after Caroline left.
Or maybe it's not the couch itself as much as the fact that you're sitting so near to me, so near to me on that couch, and still so far away--so far you might as well be on the moon.
You don't seem to notice my princess-on-the-pea act: your gaze is focused on the screen, riveted, it seems, by the action on the field.
I didn't know you were such a sports fan, but you are, today.
You must really enjoy the game, for there is a lovely blush on your cheek, and your mouth hangs half open in fascination.
Yeah, good thing I don't bother you with my stupid squirming on that damn couch.
I should have thrown that thing out months ago, gotten myself a decent one, but when do I ever have the time?
When do either of us ever have the time for something like that?
When we get home, often together these days--you have been zealously guarding my back on every case lately--it's all we can do to fix dinner and slump down on that bloody, god-awful couch.
We don't have any energy left to go shopping for furniture too.
So that's why I just have to keep squirming, every time when you sit here next to me and watch the news or a show or a game, and are riveted just like now, so that your eyes glisten like misty sapphires, and your cheeks get a rosy glow with the fascination of it, and your lips are soft in relaxed intensity, soft and springy, as if in need of other lips pressed on them, to flatten them nicely, as if in need of a firm mouth on them, to suck and nibble them, make them even more red and shiny, in need of a tongue to push between them, to suck from your well, from that well of sweetness and gentleness and kindness, from that beautiful well beneath that smooth, innocent brow, framed by dark ringlets, your eyes beacons beaming with your gentle soul.
I'm glad you never seem to notice how extremely uncomfortable sitting on this couch makes me.
I'm glad it's because of the show or the game your eyes are shining and your cheeks are glowing and your tongue sneaks out nervously to the corner of your lip.
It must be because the game is so intensely exciting that I feel your body temperature go up, heat wafting off your skin in waves to settle down on mine--not because of my fidgeting, not because of my nearness.
Not because I can't take my eyes off you.
Not because you're thinking what I'm thinking, feeling what I'm feeling, not because you're leaning closer now as if you need a friendly hug, some comfort and warmth and nearness of a friend, the distance between us decreasing as you slowly shift and slide, sidling across a little molehill of a lump, your thigh inching towards mine.
I don't know if it is all this discomfort that makes you suddenly turn those blue beacons on me so I get caught in their light.
But I know that suddenly I don't care if this couch is really comfortable or not, because suddenly it seems perfect, suddenly it seems the best place in the world, when you put your arms around me, softly, hesitantly, yet warmly, then determined, when you put your mouth on mine, your stubble singeing my chin, your curls caressing my cheeks, and you pull my body down on the damned couch with your own.
end