More Jollock! Sorry, I love this ship. To pieces. As in, a lot.
Enjoy!
No matter where he was in his various stages of trying to quit smoking—and he wasn't really trying—Sherlock's kisses always tasted like smoke and nicotine. It didn't really bother Molly, he smoked the one brand that she could tolerate the smell of, but the taste of his cigarettes would cling to her tongue long after their mouths had parted. Sherlock's kisses were antithesis to his personality—they were lingering and soft, as though he was half-exploring the feeling and half-prolonging it out of enjoyment.
John's kisses tasted like coffee. The milk that he took never made it into them, but the bitterness of coffee always did. If Molly herself didn't drink coffee she might have been put off, but John never really gave her the time to be put off. When he took her in his arms and pressed his mouth against hers it was a sudden, demanding feeling. John's kisses were hard and passionate—the kind where by the end she was pressed up against a wall or Sherlock and very nearly in danger of making everyone twenty minutes late.
Their kisses didn't properly describe the men themselves—John was more content to spend a day in reading the paper, or walking in the park, whereas Sherlock woke up and immediately plotted out his day to figure out the exact minute in which he would get bored. Molly didn't mind, and in fact didn't even think much on it. She just knew that if she was in the mood for something quick, something hard, then she had to go to John. If she wanted to spend her afternoon in a more sensuous way, then it was best to go find Sherlock.
Well, of course, there were the days where she needed both—which made it quite convenient that she was seeing men who could provide her with both.
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