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TITLE: To Serve A Queen
PAIRING: Elizabeth Weir/Ronan Dex
RATING: R
NOTES: Yeah, this is the crackfic that has so far turned up with over 10,000 words and will probably end up with another 30 or 40K worth of them. I'm going to post it as a WIP, so if you want more, you may have to prod me every now and then. It helps to know Anne Bishop's universe of the Black Jewels trilogy, but it's not necessary.
I can't believe I wrote this. *headdesks* I can't believe I'm posting it. *double headdesks*
Shoot me. Shoot me now.
To Serve A Queen: Part One
To Serve A Queen: Part Two
They'd removed his chains, but not the ring of obedience.
They watched him with wary eyes - all but the two women.
They didn't trust him further than they could throw him - and at present, their throwing options were even more limited by the coach in which they travelled to the Territory they called home.
Ronan leaned against the wall, grateful for the cool of the smooth wood beneath his arm and shoulder. His back was still raw, and he had spared the tiniest thread of what little healing Craft he knew to hold his flesh together and stop infection setting in.
He wasn't capable of any more than that, not without his Jewels, and a slave wasn't allowed to use their Jewels - at least, not without punishment. Ronan had had enough of punishment today.
The worst of it was that he had little idea of what these people had in mind for him.
Of their own accord, his eyes travelled across the cabin to the woman who spoke quietly with her companion, unaware of his gaze. His eyes traced the curl of her hair, the fine line of jaw and throat, and the curves of her body, and something in his gut tightened as he responded to her.
It shouldn't be this way.
In all of seven years, he hadn't responded to any woman like this; without provocation, without coy teasing, without safframate. None of them had called to him like this, brushing their fingers across his emotions and not just his body.
You will never have my soul.
He shouldn't want her - not like this.
Perhaps it was because she wore dark jewels? The polished facets of her Red jewel gleamed at him in the lighting inside the coach. A woman's psychic strength - especially a Queen's - appealed to males, both strong and weak, but particularly the strong.
On the other hand, one of the most repellant Queens he'd been forced to serve had worn the Sapphire. She had looked upon Ronan as a challenge and tried to break him. She'd failed.
Psychic strength wasn't always attractive to Blood males; other factors counted as well.
Yet Ronan couldn't keep his eyes off her. He couldn't keep his mind from imagining her hands on his body, touching him. He couldn't drag his mind away from speculation about how she smelled, of the psychic taste of her surrounding him. And the worst part was that it was only partly physical desire that fuelled his hunger.
He cursed his weakness - the weakness that was an inborn part of every Warlord Prince: the need to serve a Queen who could keep him leashed, yet knew when to let him run free.
She owned him. Had purchased him, had walked away from him, had thought nothing more of him. He had no idea of what she had planned for him, but it couldn't be good.
And here he was, responding to her as though she was a true Queen who lived by the old ways of the Blood.
As if she'd heard his thought, she rose from her seat and came to stand before him, ushering away the guards who watched him with wary eyes.
"Your back," she said. "Let me see it."
Ronan glanced at the two warriors standing mere feet away, their expressions grim. One of them narrowed his eyes and made a quick gesture. Hurry up.
He began undoing his shirt, peeling the linen from his shoulders with a wince. He'd used a tiny bit of Craft to hold himself together, and another bit to keep the material from sticking to his lacerated back after the whipping, but it wasn't healed, just no longer oozingly raw.
Fingers touched his shoulder and he flinched without thought. A delicate birdwing brow arched at him in question, and he looked away and let her take over the removal of his shirt.
She moved with a brisk grace, and her hands eased the shirt from his bloody back with more gentleness than was warranted towards a slave. Ronan closed his eyes as her fingers brushed a drying edge here, a growing scab there. He tried not to tense at her touch, but couldn't help himself.
He was used to pain. The whippings were nothing new, neither were the beatings. And the constant ache of the ring of obedience circling his cock was a humiliation with which he'd lived for seven years. Pain was an old friend.
Hunger was a new enemy.
It seeped through him like banked fire, and he clenched his teeth together as her fingers rested lightly at the base of his spine and she asked for water and herbs to be brought. Her touch should have been cold, like ice, but Ronan could only feel the smooth fingertips, warm against even his hot skin.
He reined in the wanting with iron-clad self-control. Just because she was gentle now meant nothing.
I have a need for slaves with spirit.
And the spirit was best preserved with a healthy body.
"Kneel," she said, exerting light pressure on his arm.
Ronan hesitated, then knelt. Whatever was coming, it couldn't be worse than he'd already endured.
Silk rustled as she sat down in a chair, and a moment later, one of the guards approached with a bowl of water.
His skin tingled as she cleaned it with water mixed with dried herbs, then grew numb to the pain. The psychic currents in the air shifted and wavered in response to a spell she cast to begin healing his injuries, then darkened and vanished.
Ronan had a moment to wonder how the spell had vanished when he could feel his back still healing, and then her arms slid around his torso.
He flinched again, as startled by her hands as by the curls that had briefly traced his shoulder. But she was only bandaging his back, winding gauze around him in a makeshift bandage. Only. Ronan clenched his teeth again and fought down his body's reaction to her proximity.
How long had it been since a woman had touched him with tenderness? That was all he was responding to; a woman whose hands weren't digging into his back, who hadn't lifted her hand to slap him, who wasn't intending to use him.
Except that she was.
The spirit was best preserved with a healthy body - and hope.
He had to remember that.
"Done. Sit down in one of the chairs. We'll be home in a few hours." With no more words than that, she returned to her seat opposite the other witch, leaving her males to take away the remaining water and herbs.
Ronan climbed to his feet, wondering whether he should put the shirt back on. One of the guards tossed the garment at him. "Your back's bandanged," he said. "Put it on. Shouldn't hurt so bad now."
He eased it back over his shoulders, and caught the other witch watching him with a measuring gaze. He glared back, and her mouth curved in amusement as she turned back to the Queen.
Unexpected bitterness washed through him as he took a seat and rested his elbows on his knees to avoid aggravating his back wounds. Nothing had changed; he was still a slave, and still owned by a Queen. This one might have a care for his body, but only as long as she found him entertaining.
Movement across the cabin dragged his attention away, but it was only one of the men bringing her a glass of water. Fingers touched, and she reached up and brushed her free hand against his wrist as she smiled up at him and he smiled back. There was loyalty there, running both ways - loyalty and a gentleness that he hadn't seen in any of the courts in which he'd served back in Belka Territory.
The same gentleness with which she'd touched Ronan when she healed his back.
This Queen cared about the males in her court.
As the man turned to the other witch, the Queen's gaze flitted across the cabin, taking in all her people. Her eyes came to rest on him and something hardened in her expression. Eyes the colour of midsummer foliage turned to agate, and she turned resolutely back to the brown-skinned witch, now free, and continued speaking without another glance at Ronan.
Bitterness rose up in him again. He squashed it swiftly. He was a slave. What applied to the males in the court didn't apply to slaves - even in Belka Territory, that had held. So this Queen might treat these males with tenderness, but a slave was just a slave.
Even if her touch had ignited fire along his senses.
Ronan was still a slave.
If Belka had been a nightmare, this new Territory was going to be Hell.
--
To Part Three
PAIRING: Elizabeth Weir/Ronan Dex
RATING: R
NOTES: Yeah, this is the crackfic that has so far turned up with over 10,000 words and will probably end up with another 30 or 40K worth of them. I'm going to post it as a WIP, so if you want more, you may have to prod me every now and then. It helps to know Anne Bishop's universe of the Black Jewels trilogy, but it's not necessary.
I can't believe I wrote this. *headdesks* I can't believe I'm posting it. *double headdesks*
Shoot me. Shoot me now.
To Serve A Queen: Part One
To Serve A Queen: Part Two
They'd removed his chains, but not the ring of obedience.
They watched him with wary eyes - all but the two women.
They didn't trust him further than they could throw him - and at present, their throwing options were even more limited by the coach in which they travelled to the Territory they called home.
Ronan leaned against the wall, grateful for the cool of the smooth wood beneath his arm and shoulder. His back was still raw, and he had spared the tiniest thread of what little healing Craft he knew to hold his flesh together and stop infection setting in.
He wasn't capable of any more than that, not without his Jewels, and a slave wasn't allowed to use their Jewels - at least, not without punishment. Ronan had had enough of punishment today.
The worst of it was that he had little idea of what these people had in mind for him.
Of their own accord, his eyes travelled across the cabin to the woman who spoke quietly with her companion, unaware of his gaze. His eyes traced the curl of her hair, the fine line of jaw and throat, and the curves of her body, and something in his gut tightened as he responded to her.
It shouldn't be this way.
In all of seven years, he hadn't responded to any woman like this; without provocation, without coy teasing, without safframate. None of them had called to him like this, brushing their fingers across his emotions and not just his body.
You will never have my soul.
He shouldn't want her - not like this.
Perhaps it was because she wore dark jewels? The polished facets of her Red jewel gleamed at him in the lighting inside the coach. A woman's psychic strength - especially a Queen's - appealed to males, both strong and weak, but particularly the strong.
On the other hand, one of the most repellant Queens he'd been forced to serve had worn the Sapphire. She had looked upon Ronan as a challenge and tried to break him. She'd failed.
Psychic strength wasn't always attractive to Blood males; other factors counted as well.
Yet Ronan couldn't keep his eyes off her. He couldn't keep his mind from imagining her hands on his body, touching him. He couldn't drag his mind away from speculation about how she smelled, of the psychic taste of her surrounding him. And the worst part was that it was only partly physical desire that fuelled his hunger.
He cursed his weakness - the weakness that was an inborn part of every Warlord Prince: the need to serve a Queen who could keep him leashed, yet knew when to let him run free.
She owned him. Had purchased him, had walked away from him, had thought nothing more of him. He had no idea of what she had planned for him, but it couldn't be good.
And here he was, responding to her as though she was a true Queen who lived by the old ways of the Blood.
As if she'd heard his thought, she rose from her seat and came to stand before him, ushering away the guards who watched him with wary eyes.
"Your back," she said. "Let me see it."
Ronan glanced at the two warriors standing mere feet away, their expressions grim. One of them narrowed his eyes and made a quick gesture. Hurry up.
He began undoing his shirt, peeling the linen from his shoulders with a wince. He'd used a tiny bit of Craft to hold himself together, and another bit to keep the material from sticking to his lacerated back after the whipping, but it wasn't healed, just no longer oozingly raw.
Fingers touched his shoulder and he flinched without thought. A delicate birdwing brow arched at him in question, and he looked away and let her take over the removal of his shirt.
She moved with a brisk grace, and her hands eased the shirt from his bloody back with more gentleness than was warranted towards a slave. Ronan closed his eyes as her fingers brushed a drying edge here, a growing scab there. He tried not to tense at her touch, but couldn't help himself.
He was used to pain. The whippings were nothing new, neither were the beatings. And the constant ache of the ring of obedience circling his cock was a humiliation with which he'd lived for seven years. Pain was an old friend.
Hunger was a new enemy.
It seeped through him like banked fire, and he clenched his teeth together as her fingers rested lightly at the base of his spine and she asked for water and herbs to be brought. Her touch should have been cold, like ice, but Ronan could only feel the smooth fingertips, warm against even his hot skin.
He reined in the wanting with iron-clad self-control. Just because she was gentle now meant nothing.
I have a need for slaves with spirit.
And the spirit was best preserved with a healthy body.
"Kneel," she said, exerting light pressure on his arm.
Ronan hesitated, then knelt. Whatever was coming, it couldn't be worse than he'd already endured.
Silk rustled as she sat down in a chair, and a moment later, one of the guards approached with a bowl of water.
His skin tingled as she cleaned it with water mixed with dried herbs, then grew numb to the pain. The psychic currents in the air shifted and wavered in response to a spell she cast to begin healing his injuries, then darkened and vanished.
Ronan had a moment to wonder how the spell had vanished when he could feel his back still healing, and then her arms slid around his torso.
He flinched again, as startled by her hands as by the curls that had briefly traced his shoulder. But she was only bandaging his back, winding gauze around him in a makeshift bandage. Only. Ronan clenched his teeth again and fought down his body's reaction to her proximity.
How long had it been since a woman had touched him with tenderness? That was all he was responding to; a woman whose hands weren't digging into his back, who hadn't lifted her hand to slap him, who wasn't intending to use him.
Except that she was.
The spirit was best preserved with a healthy body - and hope.
He had to remember that.
"Done. Sit down in one of the chairs. We'll be home in a few hours." With no more words than that, she returned to her seat opposite the other witch, leaving her males to take away the remaining water and herbs.
Ronan climbed to his feet, wondering whether he should put the shirt back on. One of the guards tossed the garment at him. "Your back's bandanged," he said. "Put it on. Shouldn't hurt so bad now."
He eased it back over his shoulders, and caught the other witch watching him with a measuring gaze. He glared back, and her mouth curved in amusement as she turned back to the Queen.
Unexpected bitterness washed through him as he took a seat and rested his elbows on his knees to avoid aggravating his back wounds. Nothing had changed; he was still a slave, and still owned by a Queen. This one might have a care for his body, but only as long as she found him entertaining.
Movement across the cabin dragged his attention away, but it was only one of the men bringing her a glass of water. Fingers touched, and she reached up and brushed her free hand against his wrist as she smiled up at him and he smiled back. There was loyalty there, running both ways - loyalty and a gentleness that he hadn't seen in any of the courts in which he'd served back in Belka Territory.
The same gentleness with which she'd touched Ronan when she healed his back.
This Queen cared about the males in her court.
As the man turned to the other witch, the Queen's gaze flitted across the cabin, taking in all her people. Her eyes came to rest on him and something hardened in her expression. Eyes the colour of midsummer foliage turned to agate, and she turned resolutely back to the brown-skinned witch, now free, and continued speaking without another glance at Ronan.
Bitterness rose up in him again. He squashed it swiftly. He was a slave. What applied to the males in the court didn't apply to slaves - even in Belka Territory, that had held. So this Queen might treat these males with tenderness, but a slave was just a slave.
Even if her touch had ignited fire along his senses.
Ronan was still a slave.
If Belka had been a nightmare, this new Territory was going to be Hell.
--
To Part Three
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Emma
Let the crackfic flow!
Re: Let the crackfic flow!
Re: Let the crackfic flow!
crackficteaser I wrote for the sga_flashfic Harlequin challenge:Mercenary Hearts (http://www.livejournal.com/community/sga_flashfic/167794.html#cutid1)
I'm probably going to finish it but need to think about it some more. Enjoy.
Re: Let the crackfic flow!
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I'm starting to think I pair Elizabeth off by mood. With Zelenka when I'm looking for sweetness, with John when I'm looking for angst, longing and *issues*... and now with Ronan for the unbridled lust. ;)
(my crackfic also mutated into a monster, if that makes you feel any better.)
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Need more
Wants more of this crack...
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Damnit!
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I'm going to post it as a WIP, so if you want more, you may have to prod me every now and then.
Is that so?
*prods* :)
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I like the Weir/Dex pairing, and maybe Harry Potter has made me more receptive to fantasy if it has magic in it. Or maybe you're just doing a fantastic job with characterization and plot and especially, the What Happens Next question you're burning into my brain. Wonderful fic so far. On to the next part! :-)
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I like the Weir/Dex pairing, and maybe Harry Potter has made me more receptive to fantasy if it has magic in it. Or maybe you're just doing a fantastic job with characterization and plot and especially, the What Happens Next question you're burning into my brain. Wonderful fic so far. On to the next part! :-)
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