The Lord of Ice and Snow (BBC Sherlock AU, Sherlock/John)
Title: The Lord of Ice and Snow
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2475
Warnings: dub-con of the god/sacrifice variety
A/N: Written for the 5th round of come_at_once for the prompt "Just because there's a little snow on the roof...". This was originally going to be a silly little bit of post-case sexytimes, but then this idea happened. I regret nothing. Aside from the fact that it is still fucking winter.
Also available on AO3.
Summary: In order to convince the Lord of Ice and Snow to let winter come to an end, the people of Monatis have arranged a sacrifice. His name is John.
John was so ruddy sick of being cold.
"Hello?" he called, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering around the word. "Anybody home?"
There was no movement to suggest that anyone had heard him, which was unsurprising considering that this wasn't his first attempt to coax someone living into the massive foyer that he'd been unceremoniously dumped in. If not for the conspicuous lack of dust, John would have thought that nobody lived here at all; he doubted very much that any sane human being would want to live in a drafty old manor house halfway up the side of a mountain.
Of course, it wasn't a human being who was meant to live here.
"Hello?" John called again. He shifted in a futile effort at getting the circulation going again in his numb limbs; the chains tethering him to the floor clinked in time with his movements. "I'm rather not freeze to death here, if it's all the same to you!"
Not in the least because he was here to try and keep everyone else in the kingdom from doing just that.
"Anyone in here?" he yelled, because it wasn't like he had anything else to do.
Then, faintly, he heard what sounded like a door slamming open and a deep, irritated voice shouted, "Go away!"
"I will if you untie me!" John called back. It wasn't the truth - John couldn't just leave, not with so much at stake - but the man, whoever he was, would have to come here to untie him, which John counted as progress.
There was a long moment of silence.
"I can keep yelling!" John tried, and was rewarded by a slammed door and the steady echo of footsteps coming his way.
As they grew louder, John realized that he could hear someone muttering in time with the steady rhythm.
"Inconvenient, tedious, unwanted," the voice was saying, a new word for every foot fall. "Mundane, stupid-"
"Hey!" John protested, though his indignation faltered somewhat when the owner of the voice appeared in the cavernous space that led into the rest of the house.
John wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting, but this tall, striking man with an irritated expression on his face wasn't it.
The man took one look at John, collared at the wrists and neck, and chained to the floor, and rolled his eyes. "Oh, dull."
"Not for me," John said, tensing slightly as the man strode over with brisk, impatient steps.
"Don't care." The man's black robes whispered over the stones as he crouched at John's side and John had to fight the urge to fidget when a pair of ice-pale eyes raked over him, cataloguing every part of him.
"Uh," John said, when the stranger did nothing but stare for several minutes. "Any chance you want to get these chains off me?"
The man snorted. "Since it seems to be the most expedient way to make you stop yelling, I suppose it is in my best interests."
"Great," John said, with a sigh of relief. "Thanks. I think there's a key on the-"
Ignoring him, the man reached out and wrapped long-fingered hands around the chains connected to the ornate cuffs on John's wrists. A quick flex of his fingers and the chains snapped like they'd been made of paper instead of iron. John stared in shock while the chain attached to his collar received the same treatment, and then the man was dusting his hands off and standing.
"Well?" he said. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you'll just go."
John climbed shakily to his feet, wincing at the pull on cold-stiffened muscles. "I'm looking for the Lord of Ice and Snow," he said, and grimaced inwardly when it comes out sounding like a question.
"Yes, yes," the man said testily. "Whatever it is you want, get on with it already. My experiment is in a very delicate stage right now."
John blinked. "You're the Lord of Ice and Snow?" he asked, shocked. Because this strange, otherworldly-looking man with his inky hair and skin the same shade as the snow blanketing the ground outside might look like the personification of winter, but the legends said…
"I prefer Sherlock," the man said. "But, yes."
"I…"
"Was expecting a dragon?" Sherlock finished, looking somewhere between amused and disdainful.
Those piercing eyes wouldn't have looked out of place on an ice drake, John couldn't help but think. And no one said that the gods always had to look the same.
Sherlock sighed heavily. "Are you finished rearranging your worldview? I have better things to do."
Taking a deep breath, John squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I'm here to bargain for the end of winter."
"Dull," Sherlock said immediately. "I have no intention of waiting for the better part of the year for my next opportunity to conduct my experiments."
"But the whole kingdom is freezing to death!" John protested. "And most people won't have enough food to survive if we don't have a spring thaw soon."
Sherlock looked supremely uninterested. "So? Your lords should have sent a much better negotiator if they actually wanted my attention." He spun on his heel and started back the way he'd come. "Run along now."
"I'm not here as a negotiator," John said, trying his best not to sound frantic. Sherlock kept walking. John swallowed hard and said, as loudly and clearly as he could, "I'm here as an offering. A sacrifice."
Sherlock stopped.
Heart hammering in his chest, John waited as Sherlock turned slowly around. The expression on his face was speculative and reluctantly intrigued. Abruptly, Sherlock strode into John's personal space, looming effortlessly.
One of Sherlock's hands cupped John's chin and John jerked in startled surprise at how cold Sherlock's skin was. John himself was shivering and half-numb but Sherlock was colder still; his touch felt like being caressed by a snow bank.
"You're a sun warrior," Sherlock said, tilting John's head this way and that to look at his features. John gritted his teeth against the pricking ache of coldness that seeped into his skin. "Wounded in battle but still highly valuable. Your lords must be worried indeed to offer me such a prize."
"This winter will kill us all," John said truthfully.
Sherlock made a little 'oh' of realization and his fingers tightened on John's skin. "You volunteered for this."
John shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Not exactly," he evaded, not entirely sure that he liked where this was going.
But Sherlock was looking at him with new interest. "Brave, foolish John Watson," he said, and John started in surprise at the use of his name. "Are you so desperate for adventure that you'd volunteer to be a human sacrifice?"
Pinned in place by the look on Sherlock's face, John didn't know how to respond.
Long fingers circled around the cuffs on John's wrists. "These," Sherlock said, stroking the ornately-carved metal, "Mean that you belong to me. And this," he continued, moving to the collar sitting heavily around John's neck. "I'm sure that even you've noticed that there are no locks. No hinges."
John nodded shakily.
"Mine to do with as I wish for the rest of your mortal existence. What a thoughtful gift." Amusement flickered darkly across Sherlock's face. "You're a prince's ransom. The question is, what type of sacrifice shall I make of you?"
It took John a moment to find his voice but, when he did, it was firm and unafraid. "Whatever type will bring this winter to an end."
Sherlock chuckled, a dark, rich sound that made heat pool low in John's belly in confusing counterpoint to the cold slowly taking over every other part of him.
"You want the sun back, do you? The warmth and the life?" The hand on John's collar drifted lower, making John hiss at the chill. "Warmth is one of the few things that I don't have an aptitude for. Hardly surprising, given my other proclivities. And, apparently, what I have you for."
John's breath hitched. "That's-"
"Will you give me your heat, John Watson?" Sherlock's hands burned with cold as they trailed down John's body, even through the sturdy weave of his clothes. He stepped closer, leaving the barest whisper of space between them as he bent down to whisper, right in John's ear, "Will you give me your fire?"
John licked his lips nervously. "Yes."
Sherlock's smile was a slow, wicked curl of his lips. "Good," he said, and pulled John up into a kiss.
It was like a bolt of ice through his veins and John let out a startled moan when Sherlock's tongue swept into his mouth, spreading wet, hungry coldness in its wake. John's hands clamped on Sherlock's shoulders as he fought to regain some semblance of equilibrium. Sherlock's greater height meant that John was forced up onto the balls of his feet to keep the contact between them, his back arching and pressing him into the long, solid length of Sherlock's body.
Sherlock hummed as he drew unhurriedly back, a smile licking at the corners of his mouth and twin spots of colour high on his cheeks. John's lips felt swollen and icy cold; he wondered if the heat in Sherlock's face had been stolen from him.
"Not in quite the way you're thinking," Sherlock said, without John having voiced a single word. He grinned, a surprisingly infectious expression. "It's a renewable resource."
John cleared his throat, wincing at the burn left behind by Sherlock's chill. "Are you, I mean, is this the type of, of sacrifice you want from me?"
"Would you rather I bathe in your blood?" Sherlock asked, and John had no idea whether he was being serious or not. "You interest me, John. I hardly think I need to tell you that not many mortals do. I'm also very used to getting what I want."
A hand dropped on John's shoulder, exerting a pressure that John could neither ignore nor resist. The floor was hard and cold under his knees as he settled in front of Sherlock and John had the vaguely hysterical thought that he was never going to be warm again.
Sherlock's hands were at work in front of John's face and his cock, when he drew it out of the folds of his trousers, was thick and unnaturally pale.
John thought he might have made a sound then, though even he couldn't have said what it was supposed to mean.
The first touch of Sherlock's cock to his lips was a shock, for all that John had known it was coming. As cold as the rest of him and John had hoped that this part might have been the exception.
"Open," Sherlock said, and John did as he was told.
It was like an icicle wedging his mouth open and John shuddered at the burning pain of that extreme cold sliding against sensitive flesh. Sherlock appeared not to notice John's struggle, or else he enjoyed the trembling of John's lips. His hips rocked forward, slow enough that John kept from gagging, but only just.
"John," Sherlock said, and John flicked his eyes upwards to see Sherlock looking back at him, apparently fascinated by the blue 'o' of John's lips around his heavy prick. "Lick."
And John wasn't sure his numbed tongue had enough feeling in it for that, but he knew when something wasn't a request. Concentrating hard, he licked the underside of Sherlock's cock and was rewarded with a tremor and a choked off curse. Emboldened, John did it again, concentrating on the strange sort of thrill he felt at having this small power over a being like Sherlock.
It didn't last long. John got in another half dozen licks before Sherlock started pumping in and out of his mouth, seeking his own pleasure. Not at all convinced of his ability to keep up, John settled for relaxing around the hard length as much as possible and giving himself over as a warm tunnel for Sherlock to fuck.
Sherlock hummed in approval and his hand fell to John's head. John shuddered under the double onslaught of prickling cold skin and the drugging pleasure of fingers stroking languidly through his hair.
Sherlock used his mouth carefully but without compromise. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm that had John gagging more than once, every thrust of his cock painting sparking aftershocks of cold up and down John's mouth. Drool was running freely down John's chin and tears welled up in his eyes, freezing in his eyelashes.
"Touch yourself," Sherlock said suddenly, and John didn't waste time arguing.
He fumbled open his trousers and hissed when his own chilly fingers curled around the heated flesh between his legs. Even that pain translated into an electric sort of pleasure and John moaned around Sherlock's length as he coaxed himself into hardness.
"That's it," Sherlock said, and John felt his cheeks prickling at the way the praise sent warmth thrumming through his veins.
Sherlock thrust again and John did his best to split his attention between the cock in his mouth and the frantic pull of his hands on his own cock. They raced towards completion together and John had only the sudden hitch of Sherlock's breath as a warning before Sherlock shoved his hips in hard and came.
John choked and spluttered around a mouthful of come that burned all the way down, so cold that it felt like it would stop his heart. Miraculously, his own hands never missed a beat, and John groaned as orgasm rushed through him and he spilled himself on the ground at Sherlock's feet.
"Sherlock," he managed, shaky and breathless in the aftermath.
Sherlock dragged John to his feet and stole another deep, hungry kiss. John kissed sloppily back, noticing idly that Sherlock's tongue didn't feel the least bit cold after what he'd just had in his mouth.
"Good, John," Sherlock said, when he finally let him go. "Very good. We'll need to get you some warmer clothes, of course, and a room with a fireplace. I'm sure there's one around here somewhere."
"Sounds good," John said wearily, and tried not to think about how much of him actually meant it. "And winter?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Ending as we speak," he said, sounding rather put out by the fact.
"We'll find other things to keep you busy," John promised.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh. "Oh John," he said, wiping the frozen tear tracks off John's face with one thumb. "I'm going to enjoy you."
"That's good," John said, and finally gave into the urge to wrap his arms around himself in a futile effort to retain some heat. God's balls, he missed being warm. Guess he'd better get used to it. "Now, about those clothes?"
~fin
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2475
Warnings: dub-con of the god/sacrifice variety
A/N: Written for the 5th round of come_at_once for the prompt "Just because there's a little snow on the roof...". This was originally going to be a silly little bit of post-case sexytimes, but then this idea happened. I regret nothing. Aside from the fact that it is still fucking winter.
Also available on AO3.
Summary: In order to convince the Lord of Ice and Snow to let winter come to an end, the people of Monatis have arranged a sacrifice. His name is John.
John was so ruddy sick of being cold.
"Hello?" he called, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering around the word. "Anybody home?"
There was no movement to suggest that anyone had heard him, which was unsurprising considering that this wasn't his first attempt to coax someone living into the massive foyer that he'd been unceremoniously dumped in. If not for the conspicuous lack of dust, John would have thought that nobody lived here at all; he doubted very much that any sane human being would want to live in a drafty old manor house halfway up the side of a mountain.
Of course, it wasn't a human being who was meant to live here.
"Hello?" John called again. He shifted in a futile effort at getting the circulation going again in his numb limbs; the chains tethering him to the floor clinked in time with his movements. "I'm rather not freeze to death here, if it's all the same to you!"
Not in the least because he was here to try and keep everyone else in the kingdom from doing just that.
"Anyone in here?" he yelled, because it wasn't like he had anything else to do.
Then, faintly, he heard what sounded like a door slamming open and a deep, irritated voice shouted, "Go away!"
"I will if you untie me!" John called back. It wasn't the truth - John couldn't just leave, not with so much at stake - but the man, whoever he was, would have to come here to untie him, which John counted as progress.
There was a long moment of silence.
"I can keep yelling!" John tried, and was rewarded by a slammed door and the steady echo of footsteps coming his way.
As they grew louder, John realized that he could hear someone muttering in time with the steady rhythm.
"Inconvenient, tedious, unwanted," the voice was saying, a new word for every foot fall. "Mundane, stupid-"
"Hey!" John protested, though his indignation faltered somewhat when the owner of the voice appeared in the cavernous space that led into the rest of the house.
John wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting, but this tall, striking man with an irritated expression on his face wasn't it.
The man took one look at John, collared at the wrists and neck, and chained to the floor, and rolled his eyes. "Oh, dull."
"Not for me," John said, tensing slightly as the man strode over with brisk, impatient steps.
"Don't care." The man's black robes whispered over the stones as he crouched at John's side and John had to fight the urge to fidget when a pair of ice-pale eyes raked over him, cataloguing every part of him.
"Uh," John said, when the stranger did nothing but stare for several minutes. "Any chance you want to get these chains off me?"
The man snorted. "Since it seems to be the most expedient way to make you stop yelling, I suppose it is in my best interests."
"Great," John said, with a sigh of relief. "Thanks. I think there's a key on the-"
Ignoring him, the man reached out and wrapped long-fingered hands around the chains connected to the ornate cuffs on John's wrists. A quick flex of his fingers and the chains snapped like they'd been made of paper instead of iron. John stared in shock while the chain attached to his collar received the same treatment, and then the man was dusting his hands off and standing.
"Well?" he said. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you'll just go."
John climbed shakily to his feet, wincing at the pull on cold-stiffened muscles. "I'm looking for the Lord of Ice and Snow," he said, and grimaced inwardly when it comes out sounding like a question.
"Yes, yes," the man said testily. "Whatever it is you want, get on with it already. My experiment is in a very delicate stage right now."
John blinked. "You're the Lord of Ice and Snow?" he asked, shocked. Because this strange, otherworldly-looking man with his inky hair and skin the same shade as the snow blanketing the ground outside might look like the personification of winter, but the legends said…
"I prefer Sherlock," the man said. "But, yes."
"I…"
"Was expecting a dragon?" Sherlock finished, looking somewhere between amused and disdainful.
Those piercing eyes wouldn't have looked out of place on an ice drake, John couldn't help but think. And no one said that the gods always had to look the same.
Sherlock sighed heavily. "Are you finished rearranging your worldview? I have better things to do."
Taking a deep breath, John squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I'm here to bargain for the end of winter."
"Dull," Sherlock said immediately. "I have no intention of waiting for the better part of the year for my next opportunity to conduct my experiments."
"But the whole kingdom is freezing to death!" John protested. "And most people won't have enough food to survive if we don't have a spring thaw soon."
Sherlock looked supremely uninterested. "So? Your lords should have sent a much better negotiator if they actually wanted my attention." He spun on his heel and started back the way he'd come. "Run along now."
"I'm not here as a negotiator," John said, trying his best not to sound frantic. Sherlock kept walking. John swallowed hard and said, as loudly and clearly as he could, "I'm here as an offering. A sacrifice."
Sherlock stopped.
Heart hammering in his chest, John waited as Sherlock turned slowly around. The expression on his face was speculative and reluctantly intrigued. Abruptly, Sherlock strode into John's personal space, looming effortlessly.
One of Sherlock's hands cupped John's chin and John jerked in startled surprise at how cold Sherlock's skin was. John himself was shivering and half-numb but Sherlock was colder still; his touch felt like being caressed by a snow bank.
"You're a sun warrior," Sherlock said, tilting John's head this way and that to look at his features. John gritted his teeth against the pricking ache of coldness that seeped into his skin. "Wounded in battle but still highly valuable. Your lords must be worried indeed to offer me such a prize."
"This winter will kill us all," John said truthfully.
Sherlock made a little 'oh' of realization and his fingers tightened on John's skin. "You volunteered for this."
John shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Not exactly," he evaded, not entirely sure that he liked where this was going.
But Sherlock was looking at him with new interest. "Brave, foolish John Watson," he said, and John started in surprise at the use of his name. "Are you so desperate for adventure that you'd volunteer to be a human sacrifice?"
Pinned in place by the look on Sherlock's face, John didn't know how to respond.
Long fingers circled around the cuffs on John's wrists. "These," Sherlock said, stroking the ornately-carved metal, "Mean that you belong to me. And this," he continued, moving to the collar sitting heavily around John's neck. "I'm sure that even you've noticed that there are no locks. No hinges."
John nodded shakily.
"Mine to do with as I wish for the rest of your mortal existence. What a thoughtful gift." Amusement flickered darkly across Sherlock's face. "You're a prince's ransom. The question is, what type of sacrifice shall I make of you?"
It took John a moment to find his voice but, when he did, it was firm and unafraid. "Whatever type will bring this winter to an end."
Sherlock chuckled, a dark, rich sound that made heat pool low in John's belly in confusing counterpoint to the cold slowly taking over every other part of him.
"You want the sun back, do you? The warmth and the life?" The hand on John's collar drifted lower, making John hiss at the chill. "Warmth is one of the few things that I don't have an aptitude for. Hardly surprising, given my other proclivities. And, apparently, what I have you for."
John's breath hitched. "That's-"
"Will you give me your heat, John Watson?" Sherlock's hands burned with cold as they trailed down John's body, even through the sturdy weave of his clothes. He stepped closer, leaving the barest whisper of space between them as he bent down to whisper, right in John's ear, "Will you give me your fire?"
John licked his lips nervously. "Yes."
Sherlock's smile was a slow, wicked curl of his lips. "Good," he said, and pulled John up into a kiss.
It was like a bolt of ice through his veins and John let out a startled moan when Sherlock's tongue swept into his mouth, spreading wet, hungry coldness in its wake. John's hands clamped on Sherlock's shoulders as he fought to regain some semblance of equilibrium. Sherlock's greater height meant that John was forced up onto the balls of his feet to keep the contact between them, his back arching and pressing him into the long, solid length of Sherlock's body.
Sherlock hummed as he drew unhurriedly back, a smile licking at the corners of his mouth and twin spots of colour high on his cheeks. John's lips felt swollen and icy cold; he wondered if the heat in Sherlock's face had been stolen from him.
"Not in quite the way you're thinking," Sherlock said, without John having voiced a single word. He grinned, a surprisingly infectious expression. "It's a renewable resource."
John cleared his throat, wincing at the burn left behind by Sherlock's chill. "Are you, I mean, is this the type of, of sacrifice you want from me?"
"Would you rather I bathe in your blood?" Sherlock asked, and John had no idea whether he was being serious or not. "You interest me, John. I hardly think I need to tell you that not many mortals do. I'm also very used to getting what I want."
A hand dropped on John's shoulder, exerting a pressure that John could neither ignore nor resist. The floor was hard and cold under his knees as he settled in front of Sherlock and John had the vaguely hysterical thought that he was never going to be warm again.
Sherlock's hands were at work in front of John's face and his cock, when he drew it out of the folds of his trousers, was thick and unnaturally pale.
John thought he might have made a sound then, though even he couldn't have said what it was supposed to mean.
The first touch of Sherlock's cock to his lips was a shock, for all that John had known it was coming. As cold as the rest of him and John had hoped that this part might have been the exception.
"Open," Sherlock said, and John did as he was told.
It was like an icicle wedging his mouth open and John shuddered at the burning pain of that extreme cold sliding against sensitive flesh. Sherlock appeared not to notice John's struggle, or else he enjoyed the trembling of John's lips. His hips rocked forward, slow enough that John kept from gagging, but only just.
"John," Sherlock said, and John flicked his eyes upwards to see Sherlock looking back at him, apparently fascinated by the blue 'o' of John's lips around his heavy prick. "Lick."
And John wasn't sure his numbed tongue had enough feeling in it for that, but he knew when something wasn't a request. Concentrating hard, he licked the underside of Sherlock's cock and was rewarded with a tremor and a choked off curse. Emboldened, John did it again, concentrating on the strange sort of thrill he felt at having this small power over a being like Sherlock.
It didn't last long. John got in another half dozen licks before Sherlock started pumping in and out of his mouth, seeking his own pleasure. Not at all convinced of his ability to keep up, John settled for relaxing around the hard length as much as possible and giving himself over as a warm tunnel for Sherlock to fuck.
Sherlock hummed in approval and his hand fell to John's head. John shuddered under the double onslaught of prickling cold skin and the drugging pleasure of fingers stroking languidly through his hair.
Sherlock used his mouth carefully but without compromise. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm that had John gagging more than once, every thrust of his cock painting sparking aftershocks of cold up and down John's mouth. Drool was running freely down John's chin and tears welled up in his eyes, freezing in his eyelashes.
"Touch yourself," Sherlock said suddenly, and John didn't waste time arguing.
He fumbled open his trousers and hissed when his own chilly fingers curled around the heated flesh between his legs. Even that pain translated into an electric sort of pleasure and John moaned around Sherlock's length as he coaxed himself into hardness.
"That's it," Sherlock said, and John felt his cheeks prickling at the way the praise sent warmth thrumming through his veins.
Sherlock thrust again and John did his best to split his attention between the cock in his mouth and the frantic pull of his hands on his own cock. They raced towards completion together and John had only the sudden hitch of Sherlock's breath as a warning before Sherlock shoved his hips in hard and came.
John choked and spluttered around a mouthful of come that burned all the way down, so cold that it felt like it would stop his heart. Miraculously, his own hands never missed a beat, and John groaned as orgasm rushed through him and he spilled himself on the ground at Sherlock's feet.
"Sherlock," he managed, shaky and breathless in the aftermath.
Sherlock dragged John to his feet and stole another deep, hungry kiss. John kissed sloppily back, noticing idly that Sherlock's tongue didn't feel the least bit cold after what he'd just had in his mouth.
"Good, John," Sherlock said, when he finally let him go. "Very good. We'll need to get you some warmer clothes, of course, and a room with a fireplace. I'm sure there's one around here somewhere."
"Sounds good," John said wearily, and tried not to think about how much of him actually meant it. "And winter?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Ending as we speak," he said, sounding rather put out by the fact.
"We'll find other things to keep you busy," John promised.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh. "Oh John," he said, wiping the frozen tear tracks off John's face with one thumb. "I'm going to enjoy you."
"That's good," John said, and finally gave into the urge to wrap his arms around himself in a futile effort to retain some heat. God's balls, he missed being warm. Guess he'd better get used to it. "Now, about those clothes?"
~fin