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I have way too many of these.
--
Universe: Hermiod's House Of Pain
Pairing: Ronon/Elizabeth
Rating: NC-17 for sex, BDSM (probably incorrect), unfinished
Elizabeth's good at being quiet. A man wouldn't think it, listening to her give orders most of the day, but she does silent with an expressiveness that clenches a fist in his belly.
By the end of the two hour session, Ronon promises himself that her throat will be raw from screaming.
He stands back and admires his handiwork. Silk cords the colour of fresh-spilled blood run smooth and taut across equally smooth and taut skin that's pale as cream except for her nipples, the pale rose areolas resting on the crowning curve of white breasts. The black leather collar looks good against her skin and she looks even better against the black silk sheets of the bed. Ronon specified the colour, but he didn't specify the silk - that was her call.
Whatever the lady wants.
And Elizabeth Weir, usually one of the tougher employees in Hermiod's House of Pain, wants something slow and painful and pleasurable.
Ronon's going to give her all that - and anything else she feels like along the way.
Right now, she's on her knees in the centre of the floor, a collar around her throat, tied up. The lines of silk thread run down over her breasts, between her thighs, around her ankles, and anchor her hands behind her back. There are other threads holding her body in place - not painfully, but causing more than a little discomfort. That's the whole idea.
Ronon tests the knots beside her nipples and listens for the faint hitch in her breathing as his fingertips brush over her breasts. He lets his mouth curve in a lazy smile and hears her breath hitch again. He holds her gaze as his index finger follows the string down, down, down, brushing against the trimmed curls of her mons, sliding gently along the taut line to the knot that presses lightly against her clit.
Green eyes watch him, hazed over with hunger, and he runs the length of his finger along the knot and leans in to hear the breathy whimper that shudders through her. "Are you ready?"
Air is dragged slowly into her lungs, but Elizabeth's voice is steady. "Yes."
When he offers her his mouth, her lips part in hungry invitation, and Ronon tastes her slowly, savouring the soft, blurred edges of her desire, and reaches for the flogger tucked into his belt.
Pain and pleasure - extended by sensitivity. The first lash lands across her cheek, startling her enough that she gasps as she flinches. The second stings across her breasts and belly, and her head tilts languorously back as her eyes watch him lift his wrist for the third stroke.
Ronon doesn't stop.
The whipping is slow and irregular. Every slap of the lash brings pain as it smarts against her skin. Every kiss of the tails brings pleasure as she twists within her bindings, and the carefully positioned knots provide exquisite stimuli.
And Ronon takes it gently - under the circumstances.
--
Universe: Black Jewels Atlantis
Pairing: John/Teyla
Rating: R - violence, sexual situations, unfinished
Around midday, John decided his mood was Elizabeth's fault.
She shouldn't have gone into Korbal Territory without her usual escort - him and at least a dozen warriors. Bates was good for a Warlord, but neither as dangerous or as watchful as a Warlord Prince. John was her First Escort, the logical first choice of companion when she went anywhere.
It didn't matter that Korbal Territory was a friendly territory, that there was no reason to take a complete escort, that Carson and Caldwell had backed her up in this as the Steward of the Court and the Master of the Guard.
Right now, John needed to be near his Queen, and she had left him at the Estate.
As the day passed on, infuriation gave way to restlessness; restlessness sharpened into irritation, and irritation spawned an anger that made him snappish with Caldwell and Ford, short with Carson and Rodney, and sent the Blood males in the court scurrying for cover. As well they might.
John was the dominant male in Atlantis Territory, after all.
And right now, he couldn't stand the others.
By midafternoon, the emotions that itched beneath his skin had confined him to his room before he picked a fight with another male and started trouble that would end in bloodshed. His choice, not anyone's order.
Right now, he'd have killed any male that tried to give him an order.
He nearly reconsidered sparring practise. But if the thought of the other males in the court scraped across nerves as raw as skinned flesh, the anticipation of fighting Teyla quivered down his spine like cold water after a hot day.
John stormed into the sparring room and found her already warming up, all sleek muscle, smooth skin and the acid bite of a Black Widow's psychic scent. She turned as he entered the room and pulled off his shirt without addressing her.
It was hotter than he'd expected - the day had been bright and brisk with spring, but as yet without the heat of the approaching summer. But right now, he would have peeled out of his skin if he thought there was the faintest hope that it would cool him down.
"John." There was a note of surprise in her voice.
He glanced at her, met her gaze then broke it. "Teyla."
"Is all well?" He could feel her eyes on him, measuring and concerned.
"Why wouldn't it be?" Even to himself, his words seemed more like a snarl than speech.
Teyla regarded him with an earnest look in her large, dark eyes. "You seem unsettled."
John shrugged. "If Elizabeth hadn't gone into Korbal without me, then I wouldn't be so restless," he muttered, as he picked up the unbladed staves with which they fought. He could feel his blood running fiery as he faced her, his fingers clenching around the grip with a hunger for violence that startled even him. "Are we going to talk or are we going to fight?"
The graceful arch of her brow was the only sign of her continued concern about him, and John watched impatiently as she took up her own staves and faced him.
The instant she was ready, he attacked.
She blocked him, her eyes widening at his ferocity, but spun him off the edges of her staves without apparent effort. And then there was nothing but the dark eyes holding his own, and the currents of movement that flowed around them both as they attacked and defended, blocking, parrying, striking, dodging.
John gave no quarter, lashing out with all the fervor and aggression of which he was capable. His attack wasn't personal against her, merely an outlet through which he could work his rage.
His rage was fearsome.
After all, he was a Warlord Prince of the Blood.
Warlord Princes were the highest caste of males among the Blood - males who could only be truly tamed by the women they loved or the Queen they served.
John had no lover and his Queen had left Atlantis last night.
His mood was no real surprise, although the brutality of his desire to spend that anger on someone else might have given him a moment's pause if he'd considered it.
He didn't, driven by a need so ferocious that it eclipsed everything else at that moment.
Thank the Darkness, he served in a court where the nature of Blood males was understood.
Teyla met him where he was, returning him no leniency, giving him no respite as she blocked and parried, turned and twisted to evade the pressing violence of John's attack. She was more than capable of holding him at bay, with or without the strength of her Jewels, and John took reckless advantage of that in his fervent rage.
They moved across the floor, he attacking, she defending; a slow, circular dance of two opponents that moved through the large room. As John strove to push Teyla back into a corner, she switched the angle of attack, sliding beneath one of his blows so he was forced to change direction.
John grinned at her, tight and feral. He liked a challenge. She smiled back, brief and daring.
The fight continued.
The doors were wide open to let the fresh spring breeze through the room, and the wind tickled the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid, a corona of tendrils that caressed the bare skin of throat and neck. John pressed her back, moving into the space she'd vacated, and his psychic senses sharpened, found sudden focus.
Around him, the world tinted with scarlet hues, misting his sight and senses like a veil drawn over him. The only thing untouched by that brilliant haze was Teyla, moving across his consciousness like a finger trailed sensuously down his spine.
John attacked.
He struck for her head, never relinquishing the sight of her eyes, watchful as they tracked his every move. She blocked his blow with exquisite grace, the flow and stretch of her muscles a rhythm that was almost hypnotic beneath the smooth tan of her skin.
The air swirled around them, cool against his skin but hot against his hunger.
Her scent blew deep into John's nostrils, stirred his blood with something elemental and dangerous. It inflamed the heart and core of what he was as a Sapphire-Jewelled Warlord Prince of Atlantis, viciously passionate and passionately vicious, and yanked him up just shy of the killing edge.
Emotion tinged the air between them, and he saw something flicker in her eyes - understanding...fear. He tasted her panic on the psychic currents that eddied through the room, and pressed his attack with renewed fury.
Something had changed.
If Teyla had taken the defensive before, she had not feared his aggressiveness. Now, she still fought, but there was the ugly echo of terror in her eyes, in her scent, a fear that conveyed to John in every look and action and only made him angrier.
Teyla had no need to fear him. John had never hurt her before and he never would yet.
He had the advantage in height, weight and reach; but on most days Teyla was more than capable of holding him at bay with a skill that owed nothing to her caste and everything to her training.
Not today.
Triumph seared every pore of his body as he disarmed her, trapping her up against a wall with her arms locked beneath one hand and his staff at her throat.
Touch was his first mistake. The warmth of the skin beneath his hand engendered an imperative in his mind, undeniable, unstoppable. He held her at bay but she didn't struggle. Instead, her eyes held his, fear blooming in dark depths.
She said something John didn't hear; the pulse of blood in his veins was too strong to be ignored, and the haze that surrounded him had only one requirement.
Take.
The staff was tossed away, its clatter on the wooden floor a distant noise as he took her head in his hands and claimed her mouth with his own.
Her body stiffened against his, arching back in protest for a brief moment, before she quivered and was still. John could feel the tension in her as his lips moved on hers, tasting, drinking, hungering for the cool sweetness of her that could quench the heat that roared through him. Her hands circled his wrists as he held her, and he took this as encouragement, kissing her deeper, pressing himself against the curves of her body.
It took him several long, dizzy moments to realise that Teyla didn't welcome his interest.
On his wrists, her fingers were tense; beneath his mouth, her lips didn't move; and her fear fluttered at his psychic senses like the beating of a dove's wings.
And yet he couldn't stop.
She drew away from his mouth, evading his renewed kisses. "John--"
No more syllables escaped her mouth as John pushed her back against the wall, claiming her with a fierce hunger that only wanted to taste her, feel her, possess her.
He burned - and so would she before the night was over.
Again and again and again...
Mother Night and may the Darkness be merciful...
John hauled himself back, dragging every sense from her skin, her face, her mouth... His hands clenched by his sides, fisting in the desperate need not to give in to the ferocity of desire that raged in him as he lifted his eyes to look in her face.
Mother Night.
The pulse in his veins, the need that drove him, the prick of arousal hot across his skin...
Warlord Princes only experienced the rut once or twice a year - an overwhelming sexual need that could last for a day or several. Two things got a Warlord Prince through the rut without the place becoming a killing field: near-constant sex with a woman upon whom he fixated, or controlled violence and the calming presence of a Queen whom the Warlord Prince served.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
Usually, John got through the rut on violence tempered by Elizabeth's presence. As a Queen - his Queen - Elizabeth could keep him leashed, preventing him from hurting himself and stopping him from hurting others.
Elizabeth wasn't on the estate.
Teyla was.
She stared back at him, unmoving, her shoulder-blades pressed against the wall - initially by his body, now of her own choice.
At least she wasn't running. If she'd run from him, John couldn't guarantee that he'd have let her go.
He watched her breathe in and out, swallowing hard as she held his gaze like an animal tamer trying to reach the beast inside. Beneath that dark, wary gaze, John panted, trying to hold himself still. "Teyla--" His voice was a growl, barely human from the effort of will while every instinct, every nerve screamed for him to leap on her, seize her, take her. "Get out..."
Even those two words were torture.
Hunger clawed at him, shredding his insides. He could barely see through the scarlet veil that clouded his eyes and his mind.
"John--"
Sweet Darkness. John could barely breathe through the need ravaging him like wildfire. She was so close - all he had to do was step forward and take what he wanted.
All he had to do...
"Teyla..."
She knew what was happening - had sensed it before even he did. She knew what would happen - and feared it. Yet in the midst of her fear, she still had enough compassion for him to hesitate, and it nearly undid him. John took one step towards her, then stopped.
His nails dug into his palms, deep enough to draw blood as he growled on a Sapphire communication thread, *GO!*
Teyla went, giving him one last worried look.
John closed his eyes, trying not to listen to her footsteps fading down the corridor, struggling to resist the urge to follow her, hunt her down and take her where he caught her.
He couldn't, mustn't, didn't dare.
But he needed.
--
--
Universe: Hermiod's House Of Pain
Pairing: Ronon/Elizabeth
Rating: NC-17 for sex, BDSM (probably incorrect), unfinished
Elizabeth's good at being quiet. A man wouldn't think it, listening to her give orders most of the day, but she does silent with an expressiveness that clenches a fist in his belly.
By the end of the two hour session, Ronon promises himself that her throat will be raw from screaming.
He stands back and admires his handiwork. Silk cords the colour of fresh-spilled blood run smooth and taut across equally smooth and taut skin that's pale as cream except for her nipples, the pale rose areolas resting on the crowning curve of white breasts. The black leather collar looks good against her skin and she looks even better against the black silk sheets of the bed. Ronon specified the colour, but he didn't specify the silk - that was her call.
Whatever the lady wants.
And Elizabeth Weir, usually one of the tougher employees in Hermiod's House of Pain, wants something slow and painful and pleasurable.
Ronon's going to give her all that - and anything else she feels like along the way.
Right now, she's on her knees in the centre of the floor, a collar around her throat, tied up. The lines of silk thread run down over her breasts, between her thighs, around her ankles, and anchor her hands behind her back. There are other threads holding her body in place - not painfully, but causing more than a little discomfort. That's the whole idea.
Ronon tests the knots beside her nipples and listens for the faint hitch in her breathing as his fingertips brush over her breasts. He lets his mouth curve in a lazy smile and hears her breath hitch again. He holds her gaze as his index finger follows the string down, down, down, brushing against the trimmed curls of her mons, sliding gently along the taut line to the knot that presses lightly against her clit.
Green eyes watch him, hazed over with hunger, and he runs the length of his finger along the knot and leans in to hear the breathy whimper that shudders through her. "Are you ready?"
Air is dragged slowly into her lungs, but Elizabeth's voice is steady. "Yes."
When he offers her his mouth, her lips part in hungry invitation, and Ronon tastes her slowly, savouring the soft, blurred edges of her desire, and reaches for the flogger tucked into his belt.
Pain and pleasure - extended by sensitivity. The first lash lands across her cheek, startling her enough that she gasps as she flinches. The second stings across her breasts and belly, and her head tilts languorously back as her eyes watch him lift his wrist for the third stroke.
Ronon doesn't stop.
The whipping is slow and irregular. Every slap of the lash brings pain as it smarts against her skin. Every kiss of the tails brings pleasure as she twists within her bindings, and the carefully positioned knots provide exquisite stimuli.
And Ronon takes it gently - under the circumstances.
--
Universe: Black Jewels Atlantis
Pairing: John/Teyla
Rating: R - violence, sexual situations, unfinished
Around midday, John decided his mood was Elizabeth's fault.
She shouldn't have gone into Korbal Territory without her usual escort - him and at least a dozen warriors. Bates was good for a Warlord, but neither as dangerous or as watchful as a Warlord Prince. John was her First Escort, the logical first choice of companion when she went anywhere.
It didn't matter that Korbal Territory was a friendly territory, that there was no reason to take a complete escort, that Carson and Caldwell had backed her up in this as the Steward of the Court and the Master of the Guard.
Right now, John needed to be near his Queen, and she had left him at the Estate.
As the day passed on, infuriation gave way to restlessness; restlessness sharpened into irritation, and irritation spawned an anger that made him snappish with Caldwell and Ford, short with Carson and Rodney, and sent the Blood males in the court scurrying for cover. As well they might.
John was the dominant male in Atlantis Territory, after all.
And right now, he couldn't stand the others.
By midafternoon, the emotions that itched beneath his skin had confined him to his room before he picked a fight with another male and started trouble that would end in bloodshed. His choice, not anyone's order.
Right now, he'd have killed any male that tried to give him an order.
He nearly reconsidered sparring practise. But if the thought of the other males in the court scraped across nerves as raw as skinned flesh, the anticipation of fighting Teyla quivered down his spine like cold water after a hot day.
John stormed into the sparring room and found her already warming up, all sleek muscle, smooth skin and the acid bite of a Black Widow's psychic scent. She turned as he entered the room and pulled off his shirt without addressing her.
It was hotter than he'd expected - the day had been bright and brisk with spring, but as yet without the heat of the approaching summer. But right now, he would have peeled out of his skin if he thought there was the faintest hope that it would cool him down.
"John." There was a note of surprise in her voice.
He glanced at her, met her gaze then broke it. "Teyla."
"Is all well?" He could feel her eyes on him, measuring and concerned.
"Why wouldn't it be?" Even to himself, his words seemed more like a snarl than speech.
Teyla regarded him with an earnest look in her large, dark eyes. "You seem unsettled."
John shrugged. "If Elizabeth hadn't gone into Korbal without me, then I wouldn't be so restless," he muttered, as he picked up the unbladed staves with which they fought. He could feel his blood running fiery as he faced her, his fingers clenching around the grip with a hunger for violence that startled even him. "Are we going to talk or are we going to fight?"
The graceful arch of her brow was the only sign of her continued concern about him, and John watched impatiently as she took up her own staves and faced him.
The instant she was ready, he attacked.
She blocked him, her eyes widening at his ferocity, but spun him off the edges of her staves without apparent effort. And then there was nothing but the dark eyes holding his own, and the currents of movement that flowed around them both as they attacked and defended, blocking, parrying, striking, dodging.
John gave no quarter, lashing out with all the fervor and aggression of which he was capable. His attack wasn't personal against her, merely an outlet through which he could work his rage.
His rage was fearsome.
After all, he was a Warlord Prince of the Blood.
Warlord Princes were the highest caste of males among the Blood - males who could only be truly tamed by the women they loved or the Queen they served.
John had no lover and his Queen had left Atlantis last night.
His mood was no real surprise, although the brutality of his desire to spend that anger on someone else might have given him a moment's pause if he'd considered it.
He didn't, driven by a need so ferocious that it eclipsed everything else at that moment.
Thank the Darkness, he served in a court where the nature of Blood males was understood.
Teyla met him where he was, returning him no leniency, giving him no respite as she blocked and parried, turned and twisted to evade the pressing violence of John's attack. She was more than capable of holding him at bay, with or without the strength of her Jewels, and John took reckless advantage of that in his fervent rage.
They moved across the floor, he attacking, she defending; a slow, circular dance of two opponents that moved through the large room. As John strove to push Teyla back into a corner, she switched the angle of attack, sliding beneath one of his blows so he was forced to change direction.
John grinned at her, tight and feral. He liked a challenge. She smiled back, brief and daring.
The fight continued.
The doors were wide open to let the fresh spring breeze through the room, and the wind tickled the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid, a corona of tendrils that caressed the bare skin of throat and neck. John pressed her back, moving into the space she'd vacated, and his psychic senses sharpened, found sudden focus.
Around him, the world tinted with scarlet hues, misting his sight and senses like a veil drawn over him. The only thing untouched by that brilliant haze was Teyla, moving across his consciousness like a finger trailed sensuously down his spine.
John attacked.
He struck for her head, never relinquishing the sight of her eyes, watchful as they tracked his every move. She blocked his blow with exquisite grace, the flow and stretch of her muscles a rhythm that was almost hypnotic beneath the smooth tan of her skin.
The air swirled around them, cool against his skin but hot against his hunger.
Her scent blew deep into John's nostrils, stirred his blood with something elemental and dangerous. It inflamed the heart and core of what he was as a Sapphire-Jewelled Warlord Prince of Atlantis, viciously passionate and passionately vicious, and yanked him up just shy of the killing edge.
Emotion tinged the air between them, and he saw something flicker in her eyes - understanding...fear. He tasted her panic on the psychic currents that eddied through the room, and pressed his attack with renewed fury.
Something had changed.
If Teyla had taken the defensive before, she had not feared his aggressiveness. Now, she still fought, but there was the ugly echo of terror in her eyes, in her scent, a fear that conveyed to John in every look and action and only made him angrier.
Teyla had no need to fear him. John had never hurt her before and he never would yet.
He had the advantage in height, weight and reach; but on most days Teyla was more than capable of holding him at bay with a skill that owed nothing to her caste and everything to her training.
Not today.
Triumph seared every pore of his body as he disarmed her, trapping her up against a wall with her arms locked beneath one hand and his staff at her throat.
Touch was his first mistake. The warmth of the skin beneath his hand engendered an imperative in his mind, undeniable, unstoppable. He held her at bay but she didn't struggle. Instead, her eyes held his, fear blooming in dark depths.
She said something John didn't hear; the pulse of blood in his veins was too strong to be ignored, and the haze that surrounded him had only one requirement.
Take.
The staff was tossed away, its clatter on the wooden floor a distant noise as he took her head in his hands and claimed her mouth with his own.
Her body stiffened against his, arching back in protest for a brief moment, before she quivered and was still. John could feel the tension in her as his lips moved on hers, tasting, drinking, hungering for the cool sweetness of her that could quench the heat that roared through him. Her hands circled his wrists as he held her, and he took this as encouragement, kissing her deeper, pressing himself against the curves of her body.
It took him several long, dizzy moments to realise that Teyla didn't welcome his interest.
On his wrists, her fingers were tense; beneath his mouth, her lips didn't move; and her fear fluttered at his psychic senses like the beating of a dove's wings.
And yet he couldn't stop.
She drew away from his mouth, evading his renewed kisses. "John--"
No more syllables escaped her mouth as John pushed her back against the wall, claiming her with a fierce hunger that only wanted to taste her, feel her, possess her.
He burned - and so would she before the night was over.
Again and again and again...
Mother Night and may the Darkness be merciful...
John hauled himself back, dragging every sense from her skin, her face, her mouth... His hands clenched by his sides, fisting in the desperate need not to give in to the ferocity of desire that raged in him as he lifted his eyes to look in her face.
Mother Night.
The pulse in his veins, the need that drove him, the prick of arousal hot across his skin...
Warlord Princes only experienced the rut once or twice a year - an overwhelming sexual need that could last for a day or several. Two things got a Warlord Prince through the rut without the place becoming a killing field: near-constant sex with a woman upon whom he fixated, or controlled violence and the calming presence of a Queen whom the Warlord Prince served.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
Usually, John got through the rut on violence tempered by Elizabeth's presence. As a Queen - his Queen - Elizabeth could keep him leashed, preventing him from hurting himself and stopping him from hurting others.
Elizabeth wasn't on the estate.
Teyla was.
She stared back at him, unmoving, her shoulder-blades pressed against the wall - initially by his body, now of her own choice.
At least she wasn't running. If she'd run from him, John couldn't guarantee that he'd have let her go.
He watched her breathe in and out, swallowing hard as she held his gaze like an animal tamer trying to reach the beast inside. Beneath that dark, wary gaze, John panted, trying to hold himself still. "Teyla--" His voice was a growl, barely human from the effort of will while every instinct, every nerve screamed for him to leap on her, seize her, take her. "Get out..."
Even those two words were torture.
Hunger clawed at him, shredding his insides. He could barely see through the scarlet veil that clouded his eyes and his mind.
"John--"
Sweet Darkness. John could barely breathe through the need ravaging him like wildfire. She was so close - all he had to do was step forward and take what he wanted.
All he had to do...
"Teyla..."
She knew what was happening - had sensed it before even he did. She knew what would happen - and feared it. Yet in the midst of her fear, she still had enough compassion for him to hesitate, and it nearly undid him. John took one step towards her, then stopped.
His nails dug into his palms, deep enough to draw blood as he growled on a Sapphire communication thread, *GO!*
Teyla went, giving him one last worried look.
John closed his eyes, trying not to listen to her footsteps fading down the corridor, struggling to resist the urge to follow her, hunt her down and take her where he caught her.
He couldn't, mustn't, didn't dare.
But he needed.
--
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(That was my polite way of saying OMGMOREPLEASE!)
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(My polite way of saying AMREALLYTRYING! *g*)
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If you want to read that. :)
Actually, I think the plotbunnies are kinda full. It's the muse who's stalling on this one. And has for the last year.
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I have this feeling she's trying to get out of fanfic, though - which is what all these AU story ideas are about.
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:)
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Elizabeth as a Mistress of Pain? Hee.
Also, John/Teyla rocks!
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There should be more coming with the John/Teyla one - it's a prequel I've been trying to write for forever. Possibly could work as part of a full circle with the other story I've been writing you.
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As for John/Teyla, excellent! I really do love that universe!
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Um, please? :)
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And Ronon and Elizabeth, too, for that matter.
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Am kicking the muse to finish a few stories this month. (5 days to go - ARGH!)
Goodness!
On a side note, I always thought that Asgard was a bit saucy...
Re: Goodness!
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Maybe there are a maid somewhere or something.....LOL
Hey, he can always go and beat up Rodney!
Seriously, I love this series...and I can't wait till you continue this....especially JT!
Thanks Tie
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