HI MATT

[wearsthecoats]

Sherlock has:

• an armchair by the fire
• an expression of unreasonable cheer
• a mug of cold-pressed coffee
• a truly impressive collection of hickeys, accented by a well-bitten lip that only recently stopped bleeding.

Comments

[semicharmed]

Matt feels like he could do this for a long, long time.

All of it-- not just this part, the sucking off part, but the spell and the touching-- God, he could touch him for hours.

His mouth starts to move faster, lips wrapping tight, and he stays mindful of Sherlock's breath and the sounds he makes and the level of cold.

The spell's been great so far, but he didn't fine-tune it to accommodate swallowing.

[wearsthecoats]

Sherlock should really be thinking about that right now.

He really isn't.



And it just became quite relevant.

[semicharmed]

Matt, according to plan, pulls back in time for startlingly cold stickiness to hit his chin and his mouth.

The aura flickers a moment, striking a warmer gold note, but all Matt notices is the contrast against his hot skin, and how quickly the iciness fades.

His fingers fumble to stroke Sherlock through the rest of his orgasm.

[wearsthecoats]

With a soft, utterly contented moan, he slumps against the bed.

He's going to need to change the sheets, when he can move again; in places the frost has thickened to a coating of ice.

[semicharmed]

Matt stares as he catches his breath.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hand away and lies down against his side. He can feel the frost melting against him when he comes into contact.

His fingertips trace out aimless shapes on Sherlock's skin.

[wearsthecoats]

Sherlock buries his face against Matt's neck and manages with great effort to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer.

[semicharmed]

"Oh," he murmurs, head tilting.

He slides as close as he can get.

[wearsthecoats]

He makes a thoroughly incoherent vocal sound and gives Matt a grateful nuzzle.

[semicharmed]

Matt mmms contentedly.

He's thoroughly aroused again by now, but Sherlock's skin feels so very nice against his. (Distantly, he wonders whether he has actually given himself a magical fever.)

He's happy to make the tradeoff.

[wearsthecoats]

For someone so entirely exhausted, he recovers fast. Soon he's wrapping his arms around Matt and kissing his jawline.

[semicharmed]

"Ah," he says, one hand running up his side and curling around to his back.

He shifts pleasantly in his arms.

"I take it that was-- good for you, then."

[wearsthecoats]

"Extremely."

[semicharmed]

"Good," Matt murmurs, the word drawing out as his eyes close.

[wearsthecoats]

Sherlock presses a kiss under the corner of Matt's jaw.

[semicharmed]

His hips push forward, not strictly voluntary; his nails drag a little way back down Sherlock's back.

Mumbled, "Your mouth feels really good."

[wearsthecoats]

"Good," he says, smiling, and does it again.

[semicharmed]

Matt makes an appreciative sound.

[wearsthecoats]

The next kiss is somewhat lower, and the one after that lower still.

[semicharmed]

This time the appreciative sound Matt makes starts as an ah and trails off to an mmm.

It's an effort not to squirm; he satisfies it somewhat by digging his fingers into the muscle low on Sherlock's back.

[wearsthecoats]

Sherlock experimentally trails his fingers over the tattoo on Matt's hip.

[semicharmed]

He was at least sort of expecting it this time, but that doesn't change how he reacts: Matt gasps, head falling back.

He arches his back and rolls his hips against him.

[wearsthecoats]

His kisses are definitely meandering in a hipward direction, now.

[semicharmed]

Oh, God.

His breath is already coming faster, Sherlock's lips already feel incredible on his skin; if he kisses his tattoo now Matt knows he'll completely lose it.

In his anticipation, he becomes cognizant that he's breathing in a series of perfectly audible shudders.

[wearsthecoats]

His mouth trails down over Matt's ribs, across his stomach... and there, slow and wet and cold as ice.

[semicharmed]

"Ohhh--"

Automatic, like a chemical reaction. Sherlock's mouth against the Sanskrit on his skin feels elemental, powerful, like ice pinning him to the mattress and spearing through his core.

"Please," he gasps, "oh, my God--"