Fic for cleflink: The Holly and the Ivy
Dec. 5th, 2014 12:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: The Holly and the Ivy
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cleflink
Author:dkwilliams
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-accurate use of Celtic deities.
Summary: Sherlock, the Celtic God of Perception, comes upon a sacrificial rite and decides to take a hand in it.
Notes: Two roads diverged from a single idea, that of Sherlock as a God – one of them total crack (“The God’s Companion”) and this one, which is a bit more serious. John’s native speech is shown in brackets like this [“phrase’]. I thought that this was easier than inflicting my horrible non-Latin skills upon readers. Thanks to my beta, Katie, who did a lovely and quick job.
It was the shouting that had caught Sherlock's attention, bringing him out of his contemplative state.
He had been attempting to solve a mystery for the king of Dyfed, whose son had been murdered (or stolen), the blame falling on the pretty demi-goddess he'd married. Unable to think among the foolish babble of the Dyfed court, the young God of Perception had retreated to the sacred grove on the island of Anglesey, there to gather his thoughts. And now it appeared that even this refuge was to be denied him.
Instead of fleeing to another location, however, the God found himself drawn nearer to the clearing in the centre of the grove. He had never seen a sacrifice although his older brother had described one for him, once. Curiosity made him want to observe more, for surely no knowledge was useless.
The Druid priests had brought the man into the sacred grove, although he was clearly not a willing sacrifice. The man was unlike any that Sherlock had seen until then. He was not small with dark hair like the priests and kings of the south. Neither was he ginger-haired and gangly like the princes of the north. Instead, he was of average stature, fair of hair and yet deeply tanned by a stronger sun than the God had ever known. His clothing was odd as well, not the woolen tunic and trews of the common folk nor the flaxen robes of the priests. He wore a skirt-like garment, of leather and metal strips, with more metal over his chest and arms and legs. An empty sheath hung from his belt, evidence of a bladed weapon longer than a hunting knife. The God had heard his brother talk about other foreign warriors like this one, those who had settled on the river where the mighty Bran's head had been buried. His words as he swore at the priests were foreign as well, and full of terror. Which, Sherlock had to admit, was warranted under the circumstances.
The priests managed to subdue the foreign warrior while the God was studying him, and they bound him to the altar with soft ropes on wrists and ankles. Then their sharp knives came out, cutting away his clothing and laying bare the flesh. It was a sight well worth seeing, and the God drew closer while continuing to obscure his presence. The warrior's skin was taut and tan, his muscles well-formed and strong, and the God felt an unfamiliar stirring in his loins. He drew nearer still.
There was a brief argument among the priests as the warrior's chest was bared and a scar on his left shoulder revealed. Some argued that the imperfection made him unfit for sacrifice, but the others were certain that the God would not care. They were right, for the mark intrigued Sherlock instead. He stepped close enough to put his fingers on the star-shaped mark the warrior bore on his shoulder.
The warrior looked around wildly, as if seeking the source of the invisible touch. The God was intrigued. Few among the Initiated could sense his Presence, much less a foreign worshipper of other Gods. Even the favoured among his priests were blind to his presence. Sherlock bent his head and put his lips near the warrior's ear. "Be at ease," he said softly. "You will come to no harm."
The warrior drew in a sharp breath, his eyes casting wildly about even as his body went still. It was clear that he had heard but not understood the words. Sherlock pondered the difficulty of communicating with this intriguing man.
Meanwhile, the priests continued their preparation. Once the last clothing had been cut away, fragrant oils were brought forward to anoint the warrior's head, breast, and feet. The God felt a sudden annoyance that they dared to put their hands on this warrior who was so clearly something unique and special.
A wreath of holly and ivy was set upon the man's brow and, preparations complete, the high priest stepped forward with his curved knife ready for the warrior's throat while his fellow priests chanted in praise of their gods.
And the God of Perception breathed out a single word of Power.
The priests fell to the ground, silent and still. The God stepped over them, dropping his Veil as he moved to stand beside the altar. The warrior's eyes widened and his face paled. He cried out something in his foreign tongue, averting his eyes in terror. The God stored the words in his memory palace, to puzzle their meaning out later, and placed a soothing hand upon the man's shoulder.
"You will come to no harm," he repeated, placing his fingers under the man's chin and turning his face back toward him.
The warrior's eyes met his, sadness and resignation in them. ["I am dead, then. I could not see a God otherwise. Are you Saturn, then, come to take me to the Underworld? Or Ares, granting a last boon to a fellow warrior."]
The God frowned slightly, not comprehending the torrent of the words coming from his warrior. The terror had disappeared but the sadness was nearly heart-breaking. He tried to remember what his brother had done to cheer him when he was sad as a young boy, then leaned forward to brush a kiss over the man's forehead.
"Oh!" The warrior's eyes widened and he nodded as if to himself. ["You are Ares, then, claiming one of your own. I am yours, my God. Do with me as you will."]
The warrior shifted a bit in his bonds, as if opening his body for the God's eyes and hands, a hesitant smile on his lips. Even without the words, his meaning was clear. The God was about to deny, only the warrior no longer looked sad or frightened. He wanted to say "not my area", or "while I am flattered by your interest, I consider myself celibate", but his body clearly thought differently as his phallus stirred to life. He had never been tempted by the lesser or greater gods, even those who had set themselves to ensnare him, but now his body was responding to this human as if he had ingested the strongest aphrodisiac.
Perhaps he had, Sherlock thought, a little dazed as he stared into the warrior's blue eyes. Blue, like the sky above on a warm summer day, and why had no one else noticed how remarkable this man was? Or maybe they had, he thought, glancing around at the felled Druids with narrowed eyes.
He turned back to the warrior who was still watching him. The inability to communicate was a challenge, but he was not a God for nothing, and he could manage a word or two. He touched the man's chest. "Nomen?"
"Johannes," the warrior breathed, his eyes wide. "Deus meus."
The God touched his own chest then said, "Sherlock." It was his True Name, not one of the many names his worshippers knew him by, but his milk name, only spoken before by his mother and brother.
The warrior - John - nodded and repeated Sherlock's name. There was a slight frown on his face as he studied the God, as if struggling to place him in the world that he knew, the pantheon he had been raised to worship. Worried that the warrior would begin to doubt if given time, Sherlock leaned over and kissed him fully on the lips.
Sherlock had never kissed anyone before, not seeing a purpose in an action that clouded the mind in favour of the body. Clearly, he would need to re-evaluate. Kissing John was definitely the best idea that he had ever had. John gasped, opening his mouth to Sherlock, and the kiss got impossibly better. Heat and the sensation of falling into an abyss of pleasure set every one of Sherlock's nerves on fire, and he had missed something, or else John was as unique in his ability to inspire Sherlock's passion as in all else.
John seemed to enjoy it as much as Sherlock and made a frustrated noise as he pulled at his bonds, clearly desiring to get closer to Sherlock. And it appeared that John was created to cast illumination on the darkness, for that idea was brilliant. Sherlock pulled back just enough to murmur a Word that severed the bonds, freeing John's wrists and ankles, then leaned back in to continue kissing him.
["Do with me as you will,"] John murmured against Sherlock's lips as he lifted his hands to clasp the God's head, fingers sliding through his curls. Sherlock took that as permission to claim the sacrifice as his own.
The scented oil brought by the priests was employed in anointing Sherlock's ready flesh and in opening up his warrior's body to receive him. John groaned as Sherlock joined their bodies together, clearly unaccustomed to this part of the act, and Sherlock had a moment to wonder if there was a special magic in double deflowering before his thoughts were burnt away by the heat of their coupling. John readily looped his arms around Sherlock's neck, leaning up to seal their mouths together again, and bracketed Sherlock's hips with his powerful thighs, guiding his movements. Sherlock's mind sang with the pleasure of it, a pleasure he'd had no idea existed before John. Strangers as they were to each other, they moved with the ease of long-established comrades. It was amazing. It was incredible. And Sherlock wanted it never to end.
But it must, of course. He could feel John's body tightening around him, could feel his ecstasy build and build until it spilled over. Sherlock need not follow - his stamina was that of a God, after all - but some remnant of his intelligence told him that to continue plowing his warrior thus after his peak was reached would be uncomfortable, and Sherlock could do nothing that would hurt John. So he let loose his iron control over his transport, shouting out John's name as ecstasy crashed over him.
Returning to himself afterwards was unlike waking after his rare slumbers. Instead of feeling slow and annoyingly befuddled, he was instantly aware of himself. His thoughts had never been clearer.
He looked down at John, lying wrecked beneath him, and said, impulsively, "Come with me. Be with me."
The warrior's eyes widened, and it was clear that he understood every word the God was saying now. "I am yours, my God," he replied with a certainty.
Sherlock's smiled down at John, the first genuine smile he could ever recall bestowing. "Yes, you are."
He spoke another word of Power and a light so bright that no mortal could stand it filled the clearing. It was followed by a might clap of thunder that shook the earth and split the altar in twain. When the echo of it faded, the clearing was empty and still, except for the breeze that sighed among the trees and teased the robes of the fallen priests.
The End
Recipient:
cleflinkAuthor:
dkwilliamsCharacters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-accurate use of Celtic deities.
Summary: Sherlock, the Celtic God of Perception, comes upon a sacrificial rite and decides to take a hand in it.
Notes: Two roads diverged from a single idea, that of Sherlock as a God – one of them total crack (“The God’s Companion”) and this one, which is a bit more serious. John’s native speech is shown in brackets like this [“phrase’]. I thought that this was easier than inflicting my horrible non-Latin skills upon readers. Thanks to my beta, Katie, who did a lovely and quick job.
It was the shouting that had caught Sherlock's attention, bringing him out of his contemplative state.
He had been attempting to solve a mystery for the king of Dyfed, whose son had been murdered (or stolen), the blame falling on the pretty demi-goddess he'd married. Unable to think among the foolish babble of the Dyfed court, the young God of Perception had retreated to the sacred grove on the island of Anglesey, there to gather his thoughts. And now it appeared that even this refuge was to be denied him.
Instead of fleeing to another location, however, the God found himself drawn nearer to the clearing in the centre of the grove. He had never seen a sacrifice although his older brother had described one for him, once. Curiosity made him want to observe more, for surely no knowledge was useless.
The Druid priests had brought the man into the sacred grove, although he was clearly not a willing sacrifice. The man was unlike any that Sherlock had seen until then. He was not small with dark hair like the priests and kings of the south. Neither was he ginger-haired and gangly like the princes of the north. Instead, he was of average stature, fair of hair and yet deeply tanned by a stronger sun than the God had ever known. His clothing was odd as well, not the woolen tunic and trews of the common folk nor the flaxen robes of the priests. He wore a skirt-like garment, of leather and metal strips, with more metal over his chest and arms and legs. An empty sheath hung from his belt, evidence of a bladed weapon longer than a hunting knife. The God had heard his brother talk about other foreign warriors like this one, those who had settled on the river where the mighty Bran's head had been buried. His words as he swore at the priests were foreign as well, and full of terror. Which, Sherlock had to admit, was warranted under the circumstances.
The priests managed to subdue the foreign warrior while the God was studying him, and they bound him to the altar with soft ropes on wrists and ankles. Then their sharp knives came out, cutting away his clothing and laying bare the flesh. It was a sight well worth seeing, and the God drew closer while continuing to obscure his presence. The warrior's skin was taut and tan, his muscles well-formed and strong, and the God felt an unfamiliar stirring in his loins. He drew nearer still.
There was a brief argument among the priests as the warrior's chest was bared and a scar on his left shoulder revealed. Some argued that the imperfection made him unfit for sacrifice, but the others were certain that the God would not care. They were right, for the mark intrigued Sherlock instead. He stepped close enough to put his fingers on the star-shaped mark the warrior bore on his shoulder.
The warrior looked around wildly, as if seeking the source of the invisible touch. The God was intrigued. Few among the Initiated could sense his Presence, much less a foreign worshipper of other Gods. Even the favoured among his priests were blind to his presence. Sherlock bent his head and put his lips near the warrior's ear. "Be at ease," he said softly. "You will come to no harm."
The warrior drew in a sharp breath, his eyes casting wildly about even as his body went still. It was clear that he had heard but not understood the words. Sherlock pondered the difficulty of communicating with this intriguing man.
Meanwhile, the priests continued their preparation. Once the last clothing had been cut away, fragrant oils were brought forward to anoint the warrior's head, breast, and feet. The God felt a sudden annoyance that they dared to put their hands on this warrior who was so clearly something unique and special.
A wreath of holly and ivy was set upon the man's brow and, preparations complete, the high priest stepped forward with his curved knife ready for the warrior's throat while his fellow priests chanted in praise of their gods.
And the God of Perception breathed out a single word of Power.
The priests fell to the ground, silent and still. The God stepped over them, dropping his Veil as he moved to stand beside the altar. The warrior's eyes widened and his face paled. He cried out something in his foreign tongue, averting his eyes in terror. The God stored the words in his memory palace, to puzzle their meaning out later, and placed a soothing hand upon the man's shoulder.
"You will come to no harm," he repeated, placing his fingers under the man's chin and turning his face back toward him.
The warrior's eyes met his, sadness and resignation in them. ["I am dead, then. I could not see a God otherwise. Are you Saturn, then, come to take me to the Underworld? Or Ares, granting a last boon to a fellow warrior."]
The God frowned slightly, not comprehending the torrent of the words coming from his warrior. The terror had disappeared but the sadness was nearly heart-breaking. He tried to remember what his brother had done to cheer him when he was sad as a young boy, then leaned forward to brush a kiss over the man's forehead.
"Oh!" The warrior's eyes widened and he nodded as if to himself. ["You are Ares, then, claiming one of your own. I am yours, my God. Do with me as you will."]
The warrior shifted a bit in his bonds, as if opening his body for the God's eyes and hands, a hesitant smile on his lips. Even without the words, his meaning was clear. The God was about to deny, only the warrior no longer looked sad or frightened. He wanted to say "not my area", or "while I am flattered by your interest, I consider myself celibate", but his body clearly thought differently as his phallus stirred to life. He had never been tempted by the lesser or greater gods, even those who had set themselves to ensnare him, but now his body was responding to this human as if he had ingested the strongest aphrodisiac.
Perhaps he had, Sherlock thought, a little dazed as he stared into the warrior's blue eyes. Blue, like the sky above on a warm summer day, and why had no one else noticed how remarkable this man was? Or maybe they had, he thought, glancing around at the felled Druids with narrowed eyes.
He turned back to the warrior who was still watching him. The inability to communicate was a challenge, but he was not a God for nothing, and he could manage a word or two. He touched the man's chest. "Nomen?"
"Johannes," the warrior breathed, his eyes wide. "Deus meus."
The God touched his own chest then said, "Sherlock." It was his True Name, not one of the many names his worshippers knew him by, but his milk name, only spoken before by his mother and brother.
The warrior - John - nodded and repeated Sherlock's name. There was a slight frown on his face as he studied the God, as if struggling to place him in the world that he knew, the pantheon he had been raised to worship. Worried that the warrior would begin to doubt if given time, Sherlock leaned over and kissed him fully on the lips.
Sherlock had never kissed anyone before, not seeing a purpose in an action that clouded the mind in favour of the body. Clearly, he would need to re-evaluate. Kissing John was definitely the best idea that he had ever had. John gasped, opening his mouth to Sherlock, and the kiss got impossibly better. Heat and the sensation of falling into an abyss of pleasure set every one of Sherlock's nerves on fire, and he had missed something, or else John was as unique in his ability to inspire Sherlock's passion as in all else.
John seemed to enjoy it as much as Sherlock and made a frustrated noise as he pulled at his bonds, clearly desiring to get closer to Sherlock. And it appeared that John was created to cast illumination on the darkness, for that idea was brilliant. Sherlock pulled back just enough to murmur a Word that severed the bonds, freeing John's wrists and ankles, then leaned back in to continue kissing him.
["Do with me as you will,"] John murmured against Sherlock's lips as he lifted his hands to clasp the God's head, fingers sliding through his curls. Sherlock took that as permission to claim the sacrifice as his own.
The scented oil brought by the priests was employed in anointing Sherlock's ready flesh and in opening up his warrior's body to receive him. John groaned as Sherlock joined their bodies together, clearly unaccustomed to this part of the act, and Sherlock had a moment to wonder if there was a special magic in double deflowering before his thoughts were burnt away by the heat of their coupling. John readily looped his arms around Sherlock's neck, leaning up to seal their mouths together again, and bracketed Sherlock's hips with his powerful thighs, guiding his movements. Sherlock's mind sang with the pleasure of it, a pleasure he'd had no idea existed before John. Strangers as they were to each other, they moved with the ease of long-established comrades. It was amazing. It was incredible. And Sherlock wanted it never to end.
But it must, of course. He could feel John's body tightening around him, could feel his ecstasy build and build until it spilled over. Sherlock need not follow - his stamina was that of a God, after all - but some remnant of his intelligence told him that to continue plowing his warrior thus after his peak was reached would be uncomfortable, and Sherlock could do nothing that would hurt John. So he let loose his iron control over his transport, shouting out John's name as ecstasy crashed over him.
Returning to himself afterwards was unlike waking after his rare slumbers. Instead of feeling slow and annoyingly befuddled, he was instantly aware of himself. His thoughts had never been clearer.
He looked down at John, lying wrecked beneath him, and said, impulsively, "Come with me. Be with me."
The warrior's eyes widened, and it was clear that he understood every word the God was saying now. "I am yours, my God," he replied with a certainty.
Sherlock's smiled down at John, the first genuine smile he could ever recall bestowing. "Yes, you are."
He spoke another word of Power and a light so bright that no mortal could stand it filled the clearing. It was followed by a might clap of thunder that shook the earth and split the altar in twain. When the echo of it faded, the clearing was empty and still, except for the breeze that sighed among the trees and teased the robes of the fallen priests.
The End
