Cosmic
A/N: Been a while, hasn't it? Blame my terrible procrastination problem and my writer's block. Mainly, blame my writer's block. This fic was languishing on my hard drive, I recall sending it to Lono for a read through, and though she had been nothing but kind, I lacked the courage to post it.
I just now had the urge finish this PWP off. For reasons completely unrelated to me having a terrible day and being a level 2348759343520098 klutz and getting my fingers scraped by a frigging crack in the wall.
Don't ask.
This is for Fayth3. She knows why.
Now, on with the story!
Once every fifty years. Fifty mortal years, but they seemed too long an interval.
Fifty mortal years, that was what they had promised themselves.
John Watson has terrible taste in alcohol; he has an even more terrible taste in bars. But he, as a Guardian, is duty bound to follow his charge wherever he went, be it in corporeal or incorporeal form.
He could have chosen to be in his incorporeal form, surely that would have ensured these plebeians from accosting his vessel, but he had his reasons for being in this form tonight. And duty is not the only reason why he is inside this den of iniquity tonight.
The bartender, a curvaceous woman with bleached hair and clothes damp with sweat, is eyeing him anxiously. He looks at her disinterestedly, no doubt she could see through his vessel, see his true form.
It is rather humorous, and ironical, that a simple barmaid can see through him- he had walked past a supposed Man of the Lord just the other day, and he had been barely spared a glance.
Purity did indeed come from the most unlikely of places.
Neither knew the other's true name.
They did not want to.
They preferred to call each other by whatever their current vessels called themselves.
A sudden change in atmosphere, one that only he can detect, makes him look up from the water he has been nursing all night. The barmaid flinches; he is impressed that she has not broken into a mad dash for the exit yet.
No doubt what she is currently seeing is an object of her worst nightmares.
"Mortals," a feminine, rather exasperated voice says from next to him, he can feel her warmth as her body slides into the seat next to him, "rather adorable creatures when frightened, but one does get tired of it once in a while."
He fights a shiver as her fingers slowly climb up his arms and into his curly hair. He turns to take in the sight of her, her new vessel that of a demure young woman, brown hair with matching eyes, all sweetness and girlishness.
A smirk graces her face as her eyes flash complete black, a black that covers even the whites of her eyes, before reverting back to brown.
"I missed you," she states matter-of-factly, and he barely has an arm around her waist before she clutches at his hair tightly, pulling him to her in a bruising kiss.
He is aware that the barmaid is disgusted, he can hear her praying, but he cannot bring himself to care. He focuses all of his attention on the woman in his arms, relishing in her sudden submissiveness, tongue thoroughly invading her sweet mouth.
"Name," he breathes between slashing kisses, resisting the urge to pull her onto his lap. (They don't need to breathe; it is more of letting her have an opening in which to speak).
"Molly," she moans back, biting his full bottom lip hard enough to bleed. She laps at the drop of red until the cut heals.
"Sherlock," he replies, mouthing along her jaw before pulling back, dimly aware of the catcalls and wolf-whistles that are aimed their way.
William and Elizabeth.
Jonathan and Katherine.
Hugo and Wendy.
…Sherlock and Molly.
"I feel so…clean now," she says, breathlessly, burying her nose into the material of his coat, his arm tucking her into his side as they walk out of the bar.
He is still surprised at how easily he had been able to leave, his duty to ensure the protection of John Watson taking a 'back seat' as the mortals called it. He is still aware of John, should he get into trouble he would be by his side in a beat of wings.
She slides her arm under his coat and around his waist. "Stop thinking, feathers, and just take me home already."
"Did I not tell you my current name?"
"Hmm," she says as she rises on her toes to kiss his chin, he wonders why she hadn't picked a taller woman to possess. "Feathers sounds cute."
"I am not cute," he says indignantly, raising a hand to hail a passing cab. "You are the only demon I know who uses the word cute."
"I am the only demon you know," she retorts blithely, "You don't leave the others alive long enough to know what their vocabularies are." She looks in distaste at the taxi that comes to stop in front of them.
"Why are we not using those lovely little wings of yours?" she asks in a whisper, none too politely, as she slides into the car, him following in after her. He tells the driver his address before answering her.
He cups her face. "I didn't want to end this night prematurely."
She laughs breathily. "You hopeless romantic, I wonder if you covered your flat with candles."
They are traitors to their own kinds, if the others were to find out, she would be fed to Cerberus; he would lose his Grace and be banished to Purgatory.
Yet, when they explore each other's bodies to completion, none of them can bring themselves to care.
They can barely make it up the stairs, and he does not wish to relinquish his hold on her, allowing her to kiss and lick and bite at the pale skin of his neck; so he indulges a little and the sound of the powerful wings beating fills the house.
"I like this vessel," she says as his wings cease beating and fade into their incorporeal form, and he lets her down on unsteady feet, the dim glow of the living room fireplace throwing her in high relief. "It's so…sharp."
"Hmm," he says noncommittally, "it matters not, it's all…transport."
"Well," she says, stepping out of his embrace and he immediately misses her warmth. "I like having something nice to look at."
Her hands are at the ashen cardigan she is wearing, pulling the buttons out of their environs painstakingly slowly. He grunts in irritation and, grabbing a fistful of the soft material, rips it apart, the offending buttons scattering onto the carpet.
She smirks as she pulls up the top she was wearing, throwing it to the floor; he cannot tear his gaze away from the slight of her creamy breasts nestled in a black lace bra.
He has her in his bedroom and underneath him on the soft duvet of his bed in the blink of an eye.
He's sucking on the sweet skin of her porcelain neck when she pushes him off of her. He barely has a moment to orient himself when she straddles him, shapely thighs squeezing his hips, causing him to rock into her.
She tears his shirt into pieces, and he smirks. "Impatient, aren't we?" he says as her fingers map the expanse of his chest and stomach, learning his new vessel and all of its soft spots with vigor.
"Fifty years is a very long dry-spell, darling," she snaps, but then proceeds to place small kisses on his stomach with surprising tenderness. She has his trousers and boxers down past his thighs when he pulls her up roughly but the hair, kissing her, tongues dancing against each other in a violent battle for dominance.
She enjoys being on top of him, but he is not quite ready to relinquish control so easily. He rolls them over without breaking their kiss, and trails his hands over her, ripping away the lacy bra, not bothering to unclasp it.
"That was expensive!" she admonishes him, an effect ruined by the throaty moan she gives when he takes a breast onto his mouth, feeling the soft flesh settle in his mouth; he flicks his tongue against one pink nipple, feeling it harden into a nub.
He is so aroused that it almost hurts, the need for release clouding his every thought, but he drags long slender fingers down her stomach to her warm wet center still covered by a piece of damp cloth that really needed to be ripped apart as well.
"If you rip that-," she doesn't finish as her underwear is torn off of her, his fingers working over her sensitized flesh, causing her to arch into him, pressing her breasts into his chest; he seals his mouth over hers to swallow her babbles and moans and "oh fucks" as he brings her over to the precipice.
Just when she's about to explode, he stops and pulls away. She screams in frustration.
She drags her nails down her chest and takes him into her hand, and grips him hard. She has the pleasure of watching that smug grin get wiped clean off.
"If you don't stop," he hisses as she works over him expertly, a wicked grin on her face, "this will definitely end prematurely."
She seems to have no intention of stopping or slowing down, so he kisses her, a deep, wet, intimate kiss to distract her, she goes pliant in his arms, her fingers burying themselves into his mop of dark curls. They lose themselves for a while, the feverish motions of before giving way to soft caresses, intimate kisses, and hushed murmurs of adoration.
He rests his forehead against hers as her legs wrap around his hip, locking him in place. She meets his gaze for a second as she guides him into her, before her eyelids flutter shut against the sensation.
He buries his face into the crook of her neck and attempts to focus on her scent, regain some semblance of control.
He begins to move, deep and slow and sensual, he wants this to last, he wants to keep her in his arms, he wants to remain buried inside her, and he never wants to let her go.
Her fingernails dig into his shoulders, and she nips and sucks at his ear lobes, his cheeks before working her way to his mouth, their tongues tangling in a ferocious dance for control.
She's close, he can tell, a deep red flush covering the skin of her neck and blazing a path down her breasts, and when he slides a hand down to between their bodies to her center, talented fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves easily, it's all she needs to explode around him, drawn out moan that may have been his name escapes her lips.
Her eyes turn black in the throes of her orgasm, and that's all he needs, a white-hot flash of pleasure courses through him, and he meets her lips clumsily in an attempt to show her how he feels, what she makes him feel, before he collapses on top of her.
He does not need to breathe, and neither does she, but that does not stop them from gulping down air as if they were mortals in danger of drowning.
They wrap their arms around each other, and he attempts not to think about how she will be gone in a few hours, and how he will not see her in another half century.
"John will be here soon," he mumbles against into her sweet-smelling hair. She makes a noncommittal "hmm" before burrowing deeper into his side.
"He can see-,"
"Yes, yes, I know, he can see through my vessel," she says, not unkindly. "Prophets have a tendency to do that." She kisses him once on the mouth before leaving the bed, he misses her warmth immediately, and wishes he could pull her back in next to him again.
"Do you ever think, Sherlock, that we might be part of some big, ridiculous cosmic joke?" she says as she tugs on her knickers and her jeans, and begins searching for her bra.
"My dear," he says as he crosses the room, stark naked, and puts his hands on her hips, pulling her close. "Think about it. An angel and a demon walk into a bar…that is possibly the starting of the worst cosmic joke ever made."
"Do you regret it then?" she asks when she is leaving, their lips a hairs breadth apart. "Do you regret me? Regret us?"
"Never." He states, and kisses her to remove any doubt.
A/N2: Hope you lot liked it. I'm freaking nervous posting this, you lot have such high expectations of me, but let me tell you guys something- YOU ALL WRITE SOOOO GOOD AND I LOVE YOU ALL FOR IT. YOU SHERLOLLIANS ARE AN INSPIRATION AND I LOVE YOU.
Ahem.
I mean, please leave a review, because you all are such great writers and readers and friends, and your feedback matters so much to me.
Love,
Adi oxoxo
P.S: Shout out to Tiffany. I miss her.