Royal

Dec. 18th, 2011 10:08 pm
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Royal
Author:[livejournal.com profile] ofvanity
Pairing: Clara/Harry
Words: 700~
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of alcoholism.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to ACD, the BBC, etc.
Author's Note: I've been meaning to write for the Sherlock BBC fandom since last year but I never could pick up an idea long enough to really stick with it and develop something I liked. But then, IDEK WHAT HAPPENED, and this is here. I'm on a personal campaign to get everyone laid as often as possible, starting with the WATSON clan, so he begin-ith the lesson. Harry Watson. Get it in, girl. Pay attention, fandom. The Watsons are a sexually frustrated people. Beta'd by [livejournal.com profile] everhaunting.


They met the night John was deployed. Harry remembers, pulsing through the crowd, her heart in her throat, alone at this club for the first time without her brother. She remembered the first time he brought her here, one hand on her wrist and using the other to part the crowd. John was protective like that, in the wrong ways, eyeing people suspiciously and watching the bartender mix their drinks intently. They had fun that night but no one from the crowd stuck out to Harry. Every one was a single form, moving and bending in waves across the club floor.

That night was different. John was gone, for one thing. For two, there was a girl dancing with graceful, fervent energy. The girl dancing in the center had red hair, curled in spinning colors from the strobe lights, and a glass of clear liquid in her hand. Harry is moving towards her before she realizes it, watching the sway of her hips and her spinning, dark eyes. Girls are fun sometimes, sweet mouths and soft bodies but this girl was different.

She spots Harry coming through the crowd and tips her drink back, a few drops of it slipping down her mouth over her throat and a thin sheen of sweat. Harry had only been here for a small while and already, the heat was thickening on her skin, she could feel her sweat. The music is deafening, it makes conversation nearly impossible, but Harry doesn't say anything, she doesn't need to. That girl, with clear skin and dark clothes, tight and riding up on her body, her sweet curved body, she leaves her partner and stalks towards Harry.

John told her once to be careful at these places, its fine to have fun but people can't always be trusted. Watch your back.

The strobe lights are flashing so harshly, bathing everything in a royal purple glow, Harry can't see anything but this girl, her hands are thin and long and they wrap at her neck, pulling her in to the cradle of her hips to grind. Harry takes liberties, insinuating a knee between her thighs and resting her hands low enough to control the wave of her hips. The girl's eyes are dark brown, nearly black, wide and her back arches into Harry's hands, smooth and thin.

The empty glass in her hand is taken by her from a waitress, appearing spontaneously to refill it. The girl slows her hips and offers the glass to Harry. John always told her to watch her back, be careful, be smart. John is in Afghanistan now, getting shot at and supposedly helping people. There is nothing smart, vigilant or careful about what he's doing. He's halfway across the world and she's alone now, but maybe she was always alone.

John always had schoolwork, jobs, university, John was busy, and now John is gone. The girl is wearing a mini-skirt, her thighs are white and full, curved salaciously and Harry can’t think past that.

The girl, this beautiful girl who bends her back in Harry's arms, her sweet body and bare stomach, arching hips, but smells like sweat and alcohol, like peppermint and raspberries, she leans up and offers her the glass. She turns her mouth into Harry's ears. She says,”I’m Clara. I drink vodka."

Before she can say anything, Clara turns and kisses her. It’s feverish and sloppy but when she catches Harry’s lip between her teeth, her head spins with lust. They part and something has shifted between them, Clara is licking her lips and drinking the vodka but something has changed. Harry won’t leave here without this girl in her arms or between her sheets, between her legs.

She takes the glass from Clara and finishes it, feeling reckless, feeling vibrant and powerful and drops the glass but neither of them hear it shatter. The music is deafening, after all. Harry's ears ring the entire ride to Clara’s flat but she can't focus on anything other than how Clara's skin tastes like vodka, bitter and sweet and she could suck at it for ever, drunk on lust and wanton, and she could get addicted.

Across town, her landline is ringing. It’s from Afghanistan.
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