anotherwellkeptsecret: anotherwellkeptsecret: Ah, lover and perfect equal!I meant that you should

anotherwellkeptsecret: anotherwellkeptsecret: Ah, lover and perfect equal!I meant that you should discover me so, by my faint indirections; And I, when I meet you, mean to discover you by the like in you. Among the Multitude - Walt Whitman John is taking great care. Treating him like he’s made of…well. Not exactly glass, no. Not like he’ll break. Like he’ll ignite. Explode. John is handling him like he’s made of C4. Sherlock sighs. John levers him down and down and the weight of him is solid and warm and right. There is nothing between them, now. Metaphorically, literally. And it’s strange to think that they are as close as two human beings can possibly be in any given situation. Skin on skin, chest to chest. John’s hand on his hip, Sherlock’s shoulder between his teeth. But it doesn’t feel close enough, yet. “I’ve never done this before,” Sherlock says to the stucco ceiling. Eyes heavy lidded, connecting the dots. Patternicity. And it’s all John, John, John. His voice, his lips, the sweep of his thumb against Sherlock’s knee, pulling him close, and the very cores of their bodies are in alignment there, and there, and there.  Sherlock has never fit before, but now he does. John looks at him. Through him. All the way deep, deep down and back up again. His eyes are guileless. Like he hasn’t penetrated the darkest and most remote antechamber of Sherlock’s Mind Palace and lit a fuse.  “This,” Sherlock clarifies, touching John’s chest with his fingertips. “This,” he says, breathing in and breathing out, catching fire. “This.” Hooking his ankle around the small of John’s back, urging him closer still.  John kisses him. And kisses him, his eager breath dancing inside Sherlock’s mouth. Hot and wet and inviting. So they burn together. -- source link

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