random-nexus:

ishipjohnlock247:

toviv:

snogandagrope:

sherlockscarf:

emmadelosnardos:

havingbeenbreathedout:

Angelo Caduto by Roberto Ferri

The hanged man, in a version of Tarot.

Tell me I’m not the only one who sees Sherlock here.

You are NOT the only one who sees Sherlock here!!

Oh my….!

god yes!! 

Um… guys?  Did you notice he’s got black wings?  The Muse did.  *sigh*

~~~

He lay there, wrung out and panting, sable wings spread out beneath him; the jumble of their cast-off robes forming a nest in scarlet and white. Turning his head, wildly tousled hair as night-dark as his wings, Sherlock watched John’s slightly smaller frame move with similarly heavy breaths. Sprawled out in abandon where he had rolled to after crying out his pleasure into Sherlock’s mouth, John was almost fully in shadow. The pearlescent moonlight coming in from above them gleamed on John’s nearer wing, which was resting atop Sherlock’s, varying shades of sand, grey, and wheat contrasting markedly with utter black. Funny, in a way, how John’s skin was a fair blend of warm golden-brown with peach-hued beige, while Sherlock’s was creamy-pale and blush, save for the tiny buds of his rose-pink nipples. Everyone always portrayed angels as pale and demons as dark.

It was John who remembered language first, giving a giddy little sound that was almost a giggle, and saying barely above a whisper, “That was some rescue.”

Languidly lifting one arm and plucking off the knotted rope still tied around his forearm, Sherlock snorted, though he frowned at the red lines left on his pale skin; the ropes had been soaked in holy water. The burns would be days healing. “It was good of you to inconvenience yourself on my behalf,” he drawled humorously.

“Give me a moment or two more and I’ll see to those,” John said, the blue of his eyes nearly black in the dimness as he watched Sherlock free himself of the ropes about his other arm. Pushing himself into an upright position with a soft grunt, John’s wing dragged over Sherlock’s as it pulled up and away to fold neatly behind him, making Sherlock shiver at the strange mix of soothing and tickling sensations. “How did they manage to catch you?”

“I believed they held you captive,” Sherlock admitted in a voice barely as loud as a sparrow’s sigh.

John’s breath halted for an instant, then he rolled over to lie half atop Sherlock, the rustle of his many-hued wings folding around them both as soft as the feathers growing from them. Face now shadowed above him, the moonlight gilding his sandy-pale hair with a silver-white halo, John’s mouth found Sherlock’s. “You’re an idiot,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips. “A brilliant, beautiful genius of an idiot,” he added after another kiss. “But an idiot all the same.”

“But they—” Sherlock started to explain, about the proofs he’d been shown, the truth of the claims that John was being held in painful constraint resting clearly in the messenger’s mortal mind, but John’s mouth cut him off.

“Still thy tongue, Demon,” John breathed in a language older than human existence. “I have better use for it than words.”

“Trade me yours, then, Angel, and I will be content,” Sherlock replied teasingly against John’s mouth.

Laughing breath wafted over Sherlocks’ face, smelling of himself and John, blended. “Done. We’ll sort it all out later. Thou’ll sort it. Tis what thou dost.”

Sherlock answered without words, as requested, and John seemed quite content in the bargain.

You know, dear, I absolutely love it when I accidentally spark your muse. (I find it terribly amusing it was ‘Jim’s’ fault this time, though. XD)  Lovely, lovely bit of fic, as always.  ^_^