#pornetry

From Chapter 38 of A Dead Man's Money

John lay his cheek carefully alongside the crest of Sherlock's neck and allowed the water to cascade off the slick black curls and over his face. He adored Sherlock's hair in the shower. The way the sleek sinuous curls ran through his fingers and the end coiled around them. The inky black way the hair ran flat against his skull, slicking together and creating channels to guide the water off his body, down his neck, and across his chest, shoulders and back. The way one of his curls always curved a bit more to the left of his temple, causing the rivulets to flow across and down those devastatingly sharp, distractingly gorgeous cheekbones.

He loved the way Sherlock seemed to, with the warmth of their joined bodies and the steam enveloping them, be as close to being at peace as he ever was outside of sleep. Even now, strung out from too little sleep and too much neural activity, Sherlock was beginning to soften.

John cherished the way Sherlock would bring his large hands up to cup John's face, encouraging John's eyes to slide shut as the brilliant man ran his thumbs back and forth across the top of John's cheekbones, sweeping from the crease of his nose softly up over his cheeks to his temples in a reverent rhythm of adoration.

John would cover Sherlock's wide hands with his own smaller ones and follow along as Sherlock continued down the sides of John's head and his neck, tracing the contours of John's jaw, feeling the precise tendons shift and move as Sherlock's nimble fingers dipped and swept beneath his. John would hum into each and every touch and eventually blink open his eyes to find the cerulean blue of Sherlock’s, focused solely on him.

How unbelievably privileged he felt to be the focal point of this beautiful man. He would reach over and place his hands on Sherlock's face. Smaller, not quite covering everything as Sherlock could, but just as tenderly just as reverently. He would sweep aside the curls on Sherlock's forehead, raising himself up and guiding Sherlock down to bring their faces together, rivulets streaming between them, until their lips finally met and the water had no place to go save around their joined mouths and tongues.

The fine spray would catch in the jet black lashes as their tongues moved languorously, tiny beads of water dancing subtley in the diminished light. Sherlock would purr, a low breathy rumble with every slick, thick slide of their tongues, both their breathing becoming a bit more ragged as their heat rates increased. Until tongues weren't enough, weren't nearly enough. Until hands slid to backs of necks and shoulders, ghosted down arms, up slick pectorals and back down over sides. Fingers tracing muscles and flesh, hip bones and iliac crests, wandering through and around fine sparse hairs on upper, inner thighs and soft curls below belly buttons ...