The Quiet Man

Practically Romantic

Your breath is warm, and your mouth is hot. You are all I can taste, all I can smell, all I can feel. That’s what I want right now: just you. Your fingers are pressing hard into the back of my neck. At any other time, that would probably hurt. I would push anyone else’s hands away, but not yours, and not now. Right now I don’t mind at all.

Have you been waiting for this all day, like I have? It seems so. I should have said something.

I spent so long thinking about the impossibility of running my fingers through your hair, and here I am: my fingers are tangled up in it. I can pull you closer to me, I can feel the solidity of your bones, the heat of your skin. It’s reassuring, it’s overwhelming. I don’t think I can let you go now. Not anymore.

Your teeth dig into my lip momentarily, then retreat and are replaced by your tongue. Jesus Christ.

Let’s just stay this way, all right? Let’s stay as we are. Ignore Moran. Ignore the pings and beeps and rattles coming from every direction. We’re safe here. Let your brother handle it. Just keep kissing me. Don’t stop. Don’t let me go. This is a conversation we’ve barely started, and I’m not prepared to stop, Sherlock. Don’t stop.

Though, admittedly, my neck is getting a bit sore. I’m holding my head at an odd angle, I probably can’t stay this way too long. My foot is falling asleep. My shoulder is getting stiff.

Logistics always get in the way in real life, don’t they. Silly discomforts and awkwardness; they build in end points we don’t want, but have to expect. Gravity and space; muscle tension, a grumbling stomach, a full bladder, and the limited life of aching desire. It’s all necessarily transient, but I don’t want to think about that right now. I want to pin you down, I want to peel off your clothes, I want to press my lips against your bare skin. But there’s two sets of arms and legs to account for, muscles and old injuries, and clothes don’t come off that easily from a reclined position, as it turns out.

The sofa isn’t wide enough for any of this, really. In my fantasies I kissed you on this sofa for hours, I undressed you easily and stroked your endless pale skin, and both of us fitting into this tight space was never an issue. Reality is a bit different than fantasy, of course. Of course it is. Reality is better, in spite of the pulled muscles and your over-enthusiastic suction on my tongue.

Ouch. All right, all right. There. Yes. Better. Wonderful. See?

You’re experimenting with me, aren’t you. You’re pressing all the limits, seeing what works. I like it. I like being your test subject. I like the edges you stand on, the risks you take. It’s exciting. Keep going, Sherlock. Don’t stop. I like risks too.

I think you’re really getting the hang of this kissing thing. As if you’ve made some kind of postgraduate-level study of it since this morning and now you’re an expert. Your lips, your tongue: Jesus, what are you doing to me?

Kissing you is like a conversation with you; sometimes I can barely keep up, or quite understand where you’re going. It’s interesting: it’s a challenge. You force me to pay attention. I like it. It feels new, like there are no rules and never have been. And you’re right, you’re right. There never were.

It’s only been me then, hasn’t it. Only me. You haven’t so much as kissed anyone else, have you. All your experiments will be with me. I’m honoured, Sherlock. Delighted. Enthusiastic, even. Yeah: let’s do that. Let’s experiment. It will be great.

Your hands are tugging at the collar of my shirt, like you want to pull it off of me. That’s a good idea: yeah. Good idea. I want more of your skin, too. I will kiss every inch of you. I will suck on your skin and mark you; what do you think of that? You’ll have little marks on you from me to remind you, later, so you won’t be able to forget. We won’t go back to not touching each other, not again. Seal the deal; it’s not a fantasy, this is reality. This is a choice we’ve made.