random-nexus asked prettyarbitrary:

Pairing: Greg/Molly or Sherlock/John AU: Science Fiction

She’s not really a ‘she,’ Greg knows; you can’t accurately classify alien genders and sexes by human types, but it’s hard to shake the habit after a lifetime of mingling in mostly-human communities on Earth.  But Mallee is beautiful, and smart, and has a laugh that lights up Greg’s day, and who would’ve expected someone from a serpentine species to be such a good dancer?

So when she looks coyly up at him through her eyelashes and says, “I could show you some other things I can do with this tail,” he’d have to be crazy to say no.

And hell, you get an extra thing because I have a sci-fi fic idea I’ve been toying with but I’m still not sure about it:

Sherlock curls around John’s naked body in his bunk, tracing his soft lips, and asks, “What does it feel like to have a spaceship for a body?”

John licks his lips—licks Sherlock’s fingertips on his lips—and his eyes go distant.  ”I have nothing to compare it to.  This is how I am.  This module,” he raises a hand to indicate his body, “is small, usefully dextrous and mobile, and…”  Scarlet flushes from his cheeks down his throat to his chest.  So perfectly human, this body, even though the consciousness it houses is artificially created.  ”It feels good.  The rest of me doesn’t feel.  Not the same way.  But I can sense you all moving inside me, walking through my corridors and climbing through access hatches.  I can sense my engines running, 65% capacity at Warp Level 2 with a 1.32% bleed I’ve been monitoring…”  He licks Sherlock’s fingers again, slow, delicate, and thorough, gathering information about taste and texture with his tongue.

Sherlock pulls them back and lowers his head to kiss, long and deep and lush.  John tastes human, but with an odd electric tang that makes Sherlock feel like he’s drinking power.  It’s delightful; he chases it deeper into John’s mouth before releasing him with a slow, slick withdrawal.

It takes a moment before John’s eyes refocus on Sherlock’s.  ”I can see the stars, though,” he says dreamily.  ”As they are.  Not with these little human eyes.  Pure raging power.  Fire hanging in space.  I can feel space.  It wraps us up, flexes around us in an endless twisting landscape.  It reminds me of your hair.”

(And that didn’t really go where I was intending, which is why I haven’t written it yet.  It’s a flexy bastard.)