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 please..."
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If that was what he wanted....
He pulled his fingers back and slathered on a good amount of lube in his hand. he stroked himself a few times, spreading the lube around and getting him nice and achingly hard, dripping for what was going to come next.
He put on hand on John's hip, the other on held himself. He pressed his head against John's entrance, testing, teasing, not pushing in quite yet, in case it was still too much.
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He wanted it.
Wanted Sherlock.
"Please. Take it slow, but fuck me."
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His willpower was tested as he started to press his cock inside. It gave a lot of resistance at first, but the more than John relaxed, the more it pushed in. The head popped in, then the rest started to slide in much easier- the copious amount of lube were definately a help.
Centimeter by agonizing centimeter Sherlock pushed into John, groaning at the tightness, the warmth around him. Oh, by the gods, he wanted to fuck this man into next week. But he resisted.
It seemed like forever before he finally bottomed out inside of John, feeling his bollocks hit the man's arse. "Yesss." He hissed.
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He nearly sobbed when he felt those bollocks hit against his arse. "Sherlock..." He already sounded punch drunk.
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"John... can I move?" It was torture, taking it this slow, and John had no idea how much this was killing him to try to be human, to do this like John did.
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God. Fuck. God. John dragged his nails against the floor and carpet. He took a deep breath and then nodded. "Move, please."
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Finally.. FINALLY he was able to move inside of John once again, after so many decades. He wasn't quite HIS John.. not yet.. but soon, very soon, he hoped. He just had to figure out how to get John to remember.
This was a good start, he hoped.
Surprisingly, even to himself, he was slow at first, pulling until only his glans remained, then he pushed in. He repeated this, going a but harder, a bit faster each time, trying to work John up to a good buggering.
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Sherlock leaned down, grasping John and stroking him in time with his thrusts. The man was hot and heavy between his own legs, dripping down onto the floor under him. He used John's own pre and the lube that was already on his fingers to stroke John with no friction.
He fought hard not to go hard and heavy inside of John.. he could already feel his bollocks tightened against his body.. He was close, so very close now. He needed to spill inside of John, to mark the man, to make then whole once again.
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Another cried came from him when that hand wrapped around his cock. Fuck. Fuck. The blonde shook his head, moaning. "Sherlock!"
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"Ahhhhh.. Johhhhnnnnn..." He cried out as he thrust hard, spilling himself deep inside of the doctor. His hand still stroked the man, trying to bring him to his own release as as Sherlock's intense high started to fade.
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It didn't take much until he came under the other man's skilled hand.
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When John was done, He pulled his hand away, pulled out of John, and sat, panting like a human with his back against the bottom of the couch.
"John.... "He said, breathless. He really wasn't sure what else to say right now.
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"I meant it. Stay here with me." He moved, groaning as he felt Sherlock's release running down his thighs.
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"Stay. Stay the night, or move in? We don't even know each other yet." Of course that was a lie when it came to Sherlock. He had seen John, known him from when he was only a few hours old. But he didn't need to know that.
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He moved and boldly sat in Sherlock's lap.
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"I could be a serial killer, or a rapist, or a god." Sherlock said, playfully arching upwards with John in his lap. He had just had two rounds in pretty quick succession, and while he knew that he could go for as long as he wanted, he knew that John had to be drained, literally and figuratively, and would need time to recover.
"It is no small feat, inviting a person you have known for less than 24 hours to live with you."
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He was feeling playful tonight.
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"There is really no shortage of places to get sex when I want it." He replied. It was true, anonymous sex was easy, and if he accidentally, or not so accidentally killed his partner, what was one less drugged out twink found dead on the streets? He could make it look like an accident. He had plenty of times in the past.
Before HIS John.
"But... if you insist." He said, sounding rather put out about it, a playful, evil smirk crossing his lips.
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He smiled. John wasn't sure why he was doing this. Just that he was and it was the right thing to do.
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Of course he would never admit that obviously except for HIS John, he was better than anyone else he had ever been inside. He didn't need to know that.
Sherlock hardly had any worldly belongings. Why would he need stupid mortal comforts? If did indeed move in with this man, he would need to buy.. whatever it was that humans had, to keep his cover.
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After a moment he got up. "Or you can go home." He said. John wasn't sure anymore about his burgeoning feelings for this man. He seemed doubtful. John knew wasn't he doubtful, that he felt something for Sherlock. But if the man was just using him for a quick shag...
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"I would like to stay the night." he said, getting up and standing close to John. "This wasn't just a shag and leave." He continued, not even sure why he was still speaking or what he was going to stay. "This was..." He trailed off, trying to figure out how to complete the sentence. "..Nice"
It wasn't great, but hopefully it was enough for John, for now at least. even saying that simple thing had been inordinately hard.
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John stepped away and headed back towards the bathroom.
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