Fic for martinius: James
Jun. 20th, 2011 06:03 am![[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: James
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
martinius
Author:lavvyan
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Mary Watson
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: I consider myself to be a writer of some small talent, but I confess I have no words for the fervour of my love to her. What she was offering in that moment was a peace of mind I could never hope to achieve if left to my own devices, and I would have been a fool not to take her up on it.
Notes: Tag of sorts to DYIN, which I'm going to assume takes part in the late 1880s rather than the early 1900s. According tomartinius's wishes, this features a canon pairing in a D/s relationship. I hope it doesn't disappoint. :)
James
You won't be offended, Watson? You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme.
~~~
Being a man of some education, and having lived several years with my friend Sherlock Holmes, himself the world's only consulting detective, I can claim with conviction that I am more aware of my own shortcomings than most of my fellow men. I am intelligent, but not so bright as to see through many a ruse. I am law-abiding, but have in my time performed more than one feat of questionable legality. Finally, while I may admonish my patients to undertake the proper measures to regain their health, I must admit that my natural inclinations render me rather more suited to following orders than to commanding others.
Small wonder, then, that Holmes's masterful disposition captivated me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Small wonder, too, that I would find myself marrying a woman who was not only, I can admit, possessed of a keener intellect than my own, but also exhibiting a stubborn streak for which I admired her dearly.
Alas, my comfortable life was tipped off its balance in the second year of my marriage by the events my public audience knows as "The Adventure of the Dying Detective." I hadn't spent much thought on Holmes's derogation of my professional skills. As he himself had stated during that very case, I loved him as a man can love another, and my capacity to forgive him the most outrageous offence seemed near-limitless. There, however, lay the crux of the problem I was facing in the days after Holmes's sudden recovery from what had appeared at the time to be certain death: I could not, I found, forgive him for deceiving me so.
It is hard, I found, to resign oneself to a loved one's mortality. I had truly believed Holmes to be at Death's door, and my heart had quite cracked under the weight of that terrible conviction. Afterwards, try as I might, I could not seem to glue the shattered pieces back together and that, rather than the knowledge that Holmes considered me a friend but not an equal, rendered my mood a foul one indeed. Holmes's condescension, I was used to and even found endearing at times. But that he would hurt me so without a second thought was a slight I could not excuse.
My beloved Mary, of course, had identified immediately the cause for the strain I was under. Yet it was only on the fourth day, when I had snapped at the housemaid viciously enough to cause her tears, that she decided to interfere beyond offering her sympathy and understanding.
"My dear John," she said, in that gentle but firm tone of hers, "this situation cannot continue. You are turning into a veritable bear."
"I'm sorry," I returned at once, honestly contrite. "I shall attempt to keep a better rein on my temper."
She put a hand on my arm and squeezed it gently. "You've been struggling for days now, dear. I feel that I would be remiss in my duties as your wife, did I not offer my assistance in clearing your head."
I consider myself to be a writer of some small talent, but I confess I have no words for the fervour of my love to her. What she was offering in that moment was a peace of mind I could never hope to achieve if left to my own devices, and I would have been a fool not to take her up on it.
"Yes," I said, my voice quite breathless with gratitude and anticipation, causing her to smile at me.
"Good," she said. Her hand on my arm tightened, exerting the slightest pressure, and I dropped to my knees as though I had been born to live on them. "Good boy, James."
I sighed at the use of that name, that near-separate identity of mine which usually came to life solely in the safe confines of our bedroom, happily enthralled by her commanding presence. I bowed my head and listened to the drag and rustle of her skirts as she crossed the carpet to lock the drawing room door.
It is generally assumed that the sexual act holds no pleasure for the female participant and that the petit mort is reserved only for men to suffer with such delight. However, as a physician possessing a selection of tools to combat the wide-spread affliction of female hysteria, I would be a right dullard not to recognise their effects, and the cause of the same. A woman's arousal might not be well understood, but it exists all the same, and nothing at the time could have made me happier than pleasuring my dear wife. She, in turn, gladly allowed me to spend rather a large amount of time on her.
But the relations between Mary and myself were somewhat different than the simple affairs of a wife and her husband. As I have stated above, my nature tends rather more towards the submissive than the assertive, and it was this submission which I let myself sink into then, safely aware that my Mary understood, and indeed was delighted to satisfy, my yearnings.
Presently she returned from the door and settled herself on the settee, several feet away from my position.
"Come," she ordered, and, keeping to my hands and knees, I crawled across the thick carpet to join her. She caressed the side of my face to show her approval, which in turn led me another step towards the abandonment of my self in favour of attempting naught but to do her bidding. Holmes was but a faraway thought in the back of my mind, eclipsed by her gently taking the reins to the chariot of my wildly reeling emotions. "Do you remember your word?"
It took me a moment to find my way to speech. "I will not need it." My trust in her was ever-growing; shortly, I knew, it would be unshakeable and absolute. She had never taken advantage of this in a way I did not desire, and indeed never would until the day she died.
"Regardless, James, do you remember it?"
"I do."
How could I not? My word was a country whose scars I bear to this day.
"Good." Another caress, then her hand was gone. "Now. As it was your incautious tongue which performed such regrettable tasks today, I believe I shall want it to make amends. Your mouth, James."
Her repeated use of that name caused my breath to hitch in my chest, and it was with trembling hands that I reached to uncover her most feminine parts. She wore a single pair of underskirts and black silk stockings underneath, in addition to a rather lacy pair of drawers which I hadn't seen before. The fine hairs of her legs crinkled underneath the silk as I ran my palms up and down her calves. My selfish enjoyment was cut short, however, but a sudden slap to the back of my head.
"I said mouth, my dear. Do not make me punish you."
Much as I enjoyed the occasional punishments she meted out, on that day I simply wanted to bask in her presence. Resting my hands on her feet, I bowed my head to undo the fastenings which attached her stockings to her corset with my lips and teeth. Her smell was strong in my nose as I bent forward to press kiss upon kiss unto her drawers. Her own breath hitched and she trembled lightly, causing me to smile against the soft fabric.
"May I use my hands?" I murmured, for there was no way I could remove that undergarment without employing my fingers.
"You may," she granted, a little out of breath, and raised her hips obligingly as I pulled her drawers out of the way. Thus free to access her womanhood, I pressed my nose into her hair and inhaled deeply. Her hand came down to rest on the back of my neck, where it tightened in wordless warning. I understood. My mouth had been what she had bid me use, and by God I'd use it or she would make me.
So I did.
I cannot describe what it meant to me, to be granted permission to administer her most private parts. I kissed and nipped at the soft crease where her pubic bone met her legs. I licked along her inner folds, catching her arching hips with my shoulders. Finally, daringly, I spread her with my fingers and dipped my tongue into her, enjoying her breathless moans as I allowed myself to get lost in her pleasure. My mind quieted as her happiness grew rather more vocal, murmured praise and encouragement filling my self with nothing but the sound of her voice, the knowledge of her approval, and the security of her love for me. I felt safe, there on my knees between her legs. Furthermore, I felt utterly mastered, with her hand still firm on the back of my neck and her gasped orders to increase or slow my speed, to stab or soothe with my tongue, directing my every movement.
It may have taken half an hour until she peaked, but I lost track of time long before that. She held her breath and trembled underneath my caressing tongue, my other name falling off her lips like a blessing.
"James!"
Tears sprang to my eyes, my chest filled to bursting with love and gratitude.
In that moment, I had not a care in the world.
Her own handling of me seemed like nothing so much as an afterthought. I could feel my arousal, but it faded to insignificance next to the accomplishment of her satisfaction. Her kneeling beside me with her hand on my member was a boon, and one that caused me to whimper into her skirts, such was the pleasure it wrought. It did not take me long to peak, and she caught everything in her small hand and wiped it off with her handkerchief while I was still shaking, near-insensate, against her. My little death had shattered me all over again, it seemed, but not in the sharp and cutting way as Holmes's lie had days before. This had been a gentler break, a healing one, which had left my mind exhausted and empty but for my love of her.
"Kneel, James," she ordered, not unkindly as she rearranged herself on the settee in some semblance of respectability. She would not require me to return to being John immediately then, and I was grateful for it. I had to struggle to keep my balance, molten as my bones seemed to have become, but when I had managed the feat I was rewarded with her hand in my hair, pushing me gently to rest my head on her knee. I exhaled, and as I listened to her whispered endearments I knew that she would mend the scattered parts of me.
Forgiveness, it seemed, would not remain out of my reach after all.
Recipient:
martiniusAuthor:
lavvyan Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Mary Watson
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: I consider myself to be a writer of some small talent, but I confess I have no words for the fervour of my love to her. What she was offering in that moment was a peace of mind I could never hope to achieve if left to my own devices, and I would have been a fool not to take her up on it.
Notes: Tag of sorts to DYIN, which I'm going to assume takes part in the late 1880s rather than the early 1900s. According to
martinius's wishes, this features a canon pairing in a D/s relationship. I hope it doesn't disappoint. :)James
You won't be offended, Watson? You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme.
~~~
Being a man of some education, and having lived several years with my friend Sherlock Holmes, himself the world's only consulting detective, I can claim with conviction that I am more aware of my own shortcomings than most of my fellow men. I am intelligent, but not so bright as to see through many a ruse. I am law-abiding, but have in my time performed more than one feat of questionable legality. Finally, while I may admonish my patients to undertake the proper measures to regain their health, I must admit that my natural inclinations render me rather more suited to following orders than to commanding others.
Small wonder, then, that Holmes's masterful disposition captivated me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Small wonder, too, that I would find myself marrying a woman who was not only, I can admit, possessed of a keener intellect than my own, but also exhibiting a stubborn streak for which I admired her dearly.
Alas, my comfortable life was tipped off its balance in the second year of my marriage by the events my public audience knows as "The Adventure of the Dying Detective." I hadn't spent much thought on Holmes's derogation of my professional skills. As he himself had stated during that very case, I loved him as a man can love another, and my capacity to forgive him the most outrageous offence seemed near-limitless. There, however, lay the crux of the problem I was facing in the days after Holmes's sudden recovery from what had appeared at the time to be certain death: I could not, I found, forgive him for deceiving me so.
It is hard, I found, to resign oneself to a loved one's mortality. I had truly believed Holmes to be at Death's door, and my heart had quite cracked under the weight of that terrible conviction. Afterwards, try as I might, I could not seem to glue the shattered pieces back together and that, rather than the knowledge that Holmes considered me a friend but not an equal, rendered my mood a foul one indeed. Holmes's condescension, I was used to and even found endearing at times. But that he would hurt me so without a second thought was a slight I could not excuse.
My beloved Mary, of course, had identified immediately the cause for the strain I was under. Yet it was only on the fourth day, when I had snapped at the housemaid viciously enough to cause her tears, that she decided to interfere beyond offering her sympathy and understanding.
"My dear John," she said, in that gentle but firm tone of hers, "this situation cannot continue. You are turning into a veritable bear."
"I'm sorry," I returned at once, honestly contrite. "I shall attempt to keep a better rein on my temper."
She put a hand on my arm and squeezed it gently. "You've been struggling for days now, dear. I feel that I would be remiss in my duties as your wife, did I not offer my assistance in clearing your head."
I consider myself to be a writer of some small talent, but I confess I have no words for the fervour of my love to her. What she was offering in that moment was a peace of mind I could never hope to achieve if left to my own devices, and I would have been a fool not to take her up on it.
"Yes," I said, my voice quite breathless with gratitude and anticipation, causing her to smile at me.
"Good," she said. Her hand on my arm tightened, exerting the slightest pressure, and I dropped to my knees as though I had been born to live on them. "Good boy, James."
I sighed at the use of that name, that near-separate identity of mine which usually came to life solely in the safe confines of our bedroom, happily enthralled by her commanding presence. I bowed my head and listened to the drag and rustle of her skirts as she crossed the carpet to lock the drawing room door.
It is generally assumed that the sexual act holds no pleasure for the female participant and that the petit mort is reserved only for men to suffer with such delight. However, as a physician possessing a selection of tools to combat the wide-spread affliction of female hysteria, I would be a right dullard not to recognise their effects, and the cause of the same. A woman's arousal might not be well understood, but it exists all the same, and nothing at the time could have made me happier than pleasuring my dear wife. She, in turn, gladly allowed me to spend rather a large amount of time on her.
But the relations between Mary and myself were somewhat different than the simple affairs of a wife and her husband. As I have stated above, my nature tends rather more towards the submissive than the assertive, and it was this submission which I let myself sink into then, safely aware that my Mary understood, and indeed was delighted to satisfy, my yearnings.
Presently she returned from the door and settled herself on the settee, several feet away from my position.
"Come," she ordered, and, keeping to my hands and knees, I crawled across the thick carpet to join her. She caressed the side of my face to show her approval, which in turn led me another step towards the abandonment of my self in favour of attempting naught but to do her bidding. Holmes was but a faraway thought in the back of my mind, eclipsed by her gently taking the reins to the chariot of my wildly reeling emotions. "Do you remember your word?"
It took me a moment to find my way to speech. "I will not need it." My trust in her was ever-growing; shortly, I knew, it would be unshakeable and absolute. She had never taken advantage of this in a way I did not desire, and indeed never would until the day she died.
"Regardless, James, do you remember it?"
"I do."
How could I not? My word was a country whose scars I bear to this day.
"Good." Another caress, then her hand was gone. "Now. As it was your incautious tongue which performed such regrettable tasks today, I believe I shall want it to make amends. Your mouth, James."
Her repeated use of that name caused my breath to hitch in my chest, and it was with trembling hands that I reached to uncover her most feminine parts. She wore a single pair of underskirts and black silk stockings underneath, in addition to a rather lacy pair of drawers which I hadn't seen before. The fine hairs of her legs crinkled underneath the silk as I ran my palms up and down her calves. My selfish enjoyment was cut short, however, but a sudden slap to the back of my head.
"I said mouth, my dear. Do not make me punish you."
Much as I enjoyed the occasional punishments she meted out, on that day I simply wanted to bask in her presence. Resting my hands on her feet, I bowed my head to undo the fastenings which attached her stockings to her corset with my lips and teeth. Her smell was strong in my nose as I bent forward to press kiss upon kiss unto her drawers. Her own breath hitched and she trembled lightly, causing me to smile against the soft fabric.
"May I use my hands?" I murmured, for there was no way I could remove that undergarment without employing my fingers.
"You may," she granted, a little out of breath, and raised her hips obligingly as I pulled her drawers out of the way. Thus free to access her womanhood, I pressed my nose into her hair and inhaled deeply. Her hand came down to rest on the back of my neck, where it tightened in wordless warning. I understood. My mouth had been what she had bid me use, and by God I'd use it or she would make me.
So I did.
I cannot describe what it meant to me, to be granted permission to administer her most private parts. I kissed and nipped at the soft crease where her pubic bone met her legs. I licked along her inner folds, catching her arching hips with my shoulders. Finally, daringly, I spread her with my fingers and dipped my tongue into her, enjoying her breathless moans as I allowed myself to get lost in her pleasure. My mind quieted as her happiness grew rather more vocal, murmured praise and encouragement filling my self with nothing but the sound of her voice, the knowledge of her approval, and the security of her love for me. I felt safe, there on my knees between her legs. Furthermore, I felt utterly mastered, with her hand still firm on the back of my neck and her gasped orders to increase or slow my speed, to stab or soothe with my tongue, directing my every movement.
It may have taken half an hour until she peaked, but I lost track of time long before that. She held her breath and trembled underneath my caressing tongue, my other name falling off her lips like a blessing.
"James!"
Tears sprang to my eyes, my chest filled to bursting with love and gratitude.
In that moment, I had not a care in the world.
Her own handling of me seemed like nothing so much as an afterthought. I could feel my arousal, but it faded to insignificance next to the accomplishment of her satisfaction. Her kneeling beside me with her hand on my member was a boon, and one that caused me to whimper into her skirts, such was the pleasure it wrought. It did not take me long to peak, and she caught everything in her small hand and wiped it off with her handkerchief while I was still shaking, near-insensate, against her. My little death had shattered me all over again, it seemed, but not in the sharp and cutting way as Holmes's lie had days before. This had been a gentler break, a healing one, which had left my mind exhausted and empty but for my love of her.
"Kneel, James," she ordered, not unkindly as she rearranged herself on the settee in some semblance of respectability. She would not require me to return to being John immediately then, and I was grateful for it. I had to struggle to keep my balance, molten as my bones seemed to have become, but when I had managed the feat I was rewarded with her hand in my hair, pushing me gently to rest my head on her knee. I exhaled, and as I listened to her whispered endearments I knew that she would mend the scattered parts of me.
Forgiveness, it seemed, would not remain out of my reach after all.
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no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 04:25 pm (UTC)Mary is so loving, and she takes control so well. And I love that they have a safeword! Ha, and John's little explanation of the female orgasm <333
no subject
Date: 2011-07-07 12:31 am (UTC)Very well written too.