wearsthecoats | HI MATT

"Yes," he admits, half a groan.

"Okay."

Matt presses a kiss to his neck and pulls back slightly, enough to look at him. His fingers stroke absently over his chest, moving beneath his open shirt.

"There's-- a few ways I could get the self-stabilizing warmth thing going, then."

"Do tell," he invites, with a lazy smile.

"So, I figure if I try to create the warmth aura with energy I have ... in the moment, the law of diminishing energy returns means I'll end up fighting myself. And colder than I want to be." A crooked smile. "I think I need to store up warmth first, so it can fill up the aura."

His fingers keep moving while he talks; his thumbs stroke along Sherlock's collarbones.

"Given how I tend to generate magical energy, we can either keep going and you try and stay warm until I've gathered enough, or I take care of myself and we go from there."

"I find," Sherlock murmurs thoughtfully, "positive aspects to each of these options."

Matt's eyes widen slightly.

As he is currently straddling Sherlock's lap, Sherlock is in a perfect position to understand his own feelings on the subject.

"I, ah, do have a slight preference," he says, "for the latter. Just because it's quicker and more reliable, in the sense of ... fewer variables, known quantities."

He is now turning ever so slightly red.

Maybe it will almost be easier if Sherlock goes: All right, off you go, come back when you're done.

Sherlock grins and brushes his thumb down Matt's cheek.

"All right," he says agreeably. "Will it introduce any inconvenient complications if you do it here? Because I think I would like it if you did."

"Oh."

Matt's breath hitches.

"Nnno," he says, "no. It won't."

Scratch that, this could be incredibly hot.

"Brilliant. Go on, then."

And there would be Matt's brain.

Grinding to a halt.

He pauses a moment, trying to run through what he needs in his head-- but he realizes, after his sluggish mind agrees to process, that for this spell, he can meditate on a geometric boundary; he doesn't need a physical circle.

"Okay," he murmurs, sitting back far enough to undo the top button of his jeans and pull down his zipper.

"I might ... be a little unresponsive," he warns.

"And make a mess."

For this one, an orgasm would be ideal.

"So noted," he says, and gives Matt a quick kiss.

Matt returns it, still thoughtful, and--

He opts for Sanskrit. Celestial fire is in the spirit of things.

With Matt's mind slowly emptying, and his lips shaping the syllables of a language not his own, he squirms a bit to push his jeans and boxers down his hips.

He pulls his cock free carefully, with a brief glance to Sherlock's face (but only brief, or he'll lose the thread).

He starts to stroke himself.

Sherlock... is watching. Thoughtfully. With a slight, slight smile.

He was hard already; touching himself like this is a sweet relief, and the feeling of eyes on him could drive him really crazy if he let it.

He doesn't.

(Reverence be,

to thee coming,
reverence to thee going)

Matt keeps his first strokes slow, his breaths even as he can make them, and the lines of prayer his anchor.

(reverence to thee when thou breathest in,

reverence when thou breathest out)

He focuses on the growing light, building in his groin and his gut.

It looks the way candlelight might taste.

Sherlock becomes rapidly fascinated.

Thanks to all the fabulous making out they've just been doing, the energy is just below his skin, waiting to rise to his call. Matt's hand moves faster.

(reverence be to thee when thou art turned away,
reverence to thee when thou art turned hither)

He is still trying to keep the words on his lips as well as in his mind, but as he goes, his mouth falls open in a gasp.

Just keep the mold, the geometry-- then it'll be okay.

Sherlock lets his hands settle onto the couch; he doesn't want to break Matt's concentration by touching him. Much as he would love to touch him right now.

It's a tricky balance, because although one wants to clear one's mind of extraneous thought, one also wants to be in the physical present, and Matt's physical present is that he's jerking himself off in another man's lap.

But of course

(to thee, entire

reverence be here)

it's for a purpose.

Still, he can't forget about it, and as his strokes grow sharper and his breaths shallow and panting, he has to wonder what he looks like to him (no don't, focus--

give unto us that we may live)

He feels as if he stays suspended on the brink of orgasm for a very long time. He tries to make that brink last as long as he can; mystically, delayed gratification grants you greater power.

So the light and the heat builds, and the circle around him takes a shape so clear he can almost see it, almost touch.

Eventually, with a moan, he comes.

It isn't heat, exactly. Heat is danger. This is warmth. This is something soft and comfortable, something Sherlock feels with his mind more than his body.

He waits for Matt to catch his breath.

Matt blinks up at him, as if he's just now noticed he's in the room.

"Hey," he says, still a little out of breath.

The energy around him is not quite the same as it was when Sherlock met him in the bar. This is bright, bright, bright: almost molten with potential.

Matt glances down, embarrassed.

"I'll need a minute anyway," he says.

"Should I clean you up?"

"I wouldn't object to that plan."

Matt nods, sliding out of his lap, and stands somewhat jelly-legged (and a little dreamy) while he ponders.

First of all: pants off, boxers on. His jeans have some white streaks on them, but he's not too worried about it. (He nudges his shoes and socks off while he's at it.)

A moment's rummaging in his bag, and he comes up with a few crumpled coffee-shop napkins.

"Uh ... unless you'd rather do it in the civilized way, with soap and a towel. I don't currently have either."

"I do," he says, waving a hand in the direction of the bathroom.

Matt's eyebrows climb, but he redirects and heads that way.

After a moment, he calls, "You particular about type of soap? Because I only see one."

"Not at all."

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