John Watson (
ihadabadday) wrote2018-02-01 12:21 pm
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In Plain Sight - AU - Locked to
seaweed_writes
No one knew how long Gods had walked among the mortals. They just knew they had. Some remained in their country of origin, some branched out and traveled. Others started business or charities. Some just went through existence simply being. Belief didn't have much to do with how the Gods chose to lead their lives.
This tale though, it focuses on the Greek Gods of old and Mount Olympus (which is a real place and traditionally is where Zeus is said to live with Hera).
John Watson didn't care for the politics of the Gods that surrounded them every day. He had other things to focus on, to pay attention to. Like medical school, and then the military. It wasn't until he was shot and laying in the desert, bleeding, did he whisper things to the God of Death, to Hades. To a god he didn't believe in. Blood whispers they were often called. And gods hardly paid attention to them, most believed they were the whispers of dying men.
But John Watson survived when others with the same injury had died. What was different about him?
He returned to London on an army pension and a cane. He shuffled through his life, a constant ache in his chest, like there was something missing. Though he had little to no idea of what was missing. He helped others where he could, donating his time and what little money. A homeless veteran (it boiled him so to see those who helped their country be left behind) once called him a beacon of light.
A beacon of light huh?
Most days he didn't feel like one. Most days his mood was dark and everything was shit.
One night when he was limping slowly back to his dismal bedsit, something caught his attention. He glanced down an alley and saw a tall man dressed in black, being mugged by some ratty youth. The man was far too posh for this neighborhood. So why was he here? But that didn't matter. John, on two strong legs, charged into the alley and used his cane to knock the criminal away. He didn't notice, but there seemed to be a light around him, an otherworldy aura to him.
He held the cane like a sword and pointed it at the would be thief. "You need to leave here." John commanded. It had been easy for some to forget that he had been Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Her Majesty's Army.
This tale though, it focuses on the Greek Gods of old and Mount Olympus (which is a real place and traditionally is where Zeus is said to live with Hera).
John Watson didn't care for the politics of the Gods that surrounded them every day. He had other things to focus on, to pay attention to. Like medical school, and then the military. It wasn't until he was shot and laying in the desert, bleeding, did he whisper things to the God of Death, to Hades. To a god he didn't believe in. Blood whispers they were often called. And gods hardly paid attention to them, most believed they were the whispers of dying men.
But John Watson survived when others with the same injury had died. What was different about him?
He returned to London on an army pension and a cane. He shuffled through his life, a constant ache in his chest, like there was something missing. Though he had little to no idea of what was missing. He helped others where he could, donating his time and what little money. A homeless veteran (it boiled him so to see those who helped their country be left behind) once called him a beacon of light.
A beacon of light huh?
Most days he didn't feel like one. Most days his mood was dark and everything was shit.
One night when he was limping slowly back to his dismal bedsit, something caught his attention. He glanced down an alley and saw a tall man dressed in black, being mugged by some ratty youth. The man was far too posh for this neighborhood. So why was he here? But that didn't matter. John, on two strong legs, charged into the alley and used his cane to knock the criminal away. He didn't notice, but there seemed to be a light around him, an otherworldy aura to him.
He held the cane like a sword and pointed it at the would be thief. "You need to leave here." John commanded. It had been easy for some to forget that he had been Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Her Majesty's Army.
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"Sherlock... Own me." He breathed into the man's ear. There was power behind his words. Memories and power.
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"Let me show you."
Where he had been holding back before, he wasn't any more. He ravaged the man under him, buggering him fast and hard with no mercy. Claws dug deeper into his sides while the god chased the pleasure building inside of him.. A volcano fit to bursting.
He could feel it welling inside, ready to blow.. and so he kept on mercilessly fucking his lover.
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He wanted to be owned, to feel that. To be close to Sherlock, to never let the man go.
He saw it now, how the man cared and wanted him here. It was so different than it had been all those years ago.
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“Come for me, John.... “
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Sherlock stroked John through his orgasm... as soon as he slowed, and then stopped, he sent back to fucking John hard and fast holding on so he wouldn't get pushed off the bed.
Between John's orgasm, the magical power, and how aroused he already was, it only took a few more moments before his pleasure overcame him.
"Ahhhhhhh!!!!" Sherlock cried out, using all of his power to push every single little bit of himself into John as he came, his white hot seed filling his lover
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"Th... Thank you." He whispered to Sherlock. He didn't know what he was thanking him for. But it had... That had been wonderful. And the sensation of the power merging... It was odd. He felt like there was a storm inside him.
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He laid beside John, gently running his hand over the mans chest.
“What are you thinking me for, John?” He didn’t understand
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John shifted to cuddle back against the other god, his back to Sherlock's front. He made a soft noise, eyes closing.
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When on the throne, his mind went back to the last few days. A lot had happened in a short amount of time.
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He came out of his room when he finally woke, rubbing his face. He was wearing sleep pants and looked like he had just rolled out of bed.
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Sherlock had to admit that it was nice to get back to his normal job. He let Fates do his job in the Overworld while he ferried souls. It felt like home.
When John finally woke up, sleep tousled and shirtless, Sherlock had to smile. He was quite handsome, even when disheveled.
"I assume you sleep well. then?"
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"I did sleep well. I kept dreaming of you." He said honestly.
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Sherlock smirked when John said that the man had dreamed of him. "Oh, more of those dreams when I was smoking cigarettes and we were chasing criminals?" He asked.
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John ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. "When do you think I can go back to the Overworld?"
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"I will be like it was before. You can travel to the Overworld from the night of the Winter Solstice, to the night of the Spring Solstice. No more. Anything else will cause havoc in the Overworld, death and destruction of all plant life. That is the curse of Persephone."
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"Not even when I gain control of my powers?" He asked sounding a bit... Downtrodden. John had thought he might be able to visit, to see people. Unlike last time. Things had changed in the hundred years he'd been gone.
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"Fates! To me!" He yelled upwards, towards the Overworld.
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So he tucked himself against Sherlock, feeling far too cold, and wanting the heat coming from the man.
Greg appeared in a swirl of lights, an eyebrow arched, lighting the cigarette between his lips. "Yes?"
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"Greg." Sherlock said, still looking at John. "John will not be able to visit the Overworld until the next Winter Solstice, correct?"
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John nodded, listening to the Fates.
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“Greg, as Hades I run Hell. Is there something that Persephone can do in relation to the seasons?”
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John watched Greg, thinking about what he was saying.
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Was that something that John would want to do? The man was still semi human and he lacked a lot of Sherlock’s cruelty and lack of empathy.
“Will you take the mantle of Persephone, John?”
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He would... He would have to bury his emotions for it.
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