Fic: Patron Saint
Title: Patron Saint
Fandom: Doctor Who (het)
Pairing: Jack/Martha
Rating: NC-17.
Warning: Spoilers through Doctor Who: 3x13
Word Count: ~700 Words
AN: Written for the Porn Battle, with the prompt 'I'm not him'. Went through a quick edit after posting.
“Doctor Jones,” Jack nods at her, coy. The second her exams were over, Jack made it known that she not only had a job waiting for her , a vacation and a walking tour of Cardiff as icing on the cake. They both knew it was merely an excuse to see each other, but there's something to be said for never admitting to that.
“Captian,” She responds, walking past. Her hand passes through the perception filter like she can see it, and he watches her walk to the sea. She stands at the edge, looking out. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s the only real thing that’s been beautiful in this city for quite a long time,” Jack responds, and when he reaches out to catch her hand, she warmly accepts, like they’re picking up right where some other potential lovers had left off. When he leads his mouth to hers, she gasps but melts onto him, like this is everything she’s never imagined when looking at him. The surprise gives him a rush, and that night when he pulls her into the hotel room bed, she relaxes and clings to him like wax.
The Master had called her St. Martha, once in the year that doesn’t count now, not for anybody around here. It counts to Jack, though. She’s his patron saint, and he whispers her name softly like a prayer as he slides into her. He's in debt to her simply because he knows what would have become of him were it not for her. She writhes in his arms deliciously, like she’s wanted to feel this since he met her all the way at the end of the universe, and their past is more than enough to justify his undying need for her, to drink her in and never let her go.
The lights are on, thankfully, and he watches her claw at him, hair scattered on her pillow, legs raising to join at his waist, eyes sliding shut as her mouth slides open. There’s nothing wrong with that, Jack thinks, as he sits her up, piles her in his lap, kissing her as he eases her head back gently to whisper her name, to whisper his thanks onto her skin like pearls.
This is so purple for him, it almost makes his teeth hurt. She deserves it, though, she deserves it for saving the world, and if the only way he can make her see that means convincing her with his body, with the only tools he has, then it will just have to do.
The walking tour had evolved into an indulgence for the both of them; an exercise in the eroticism of hiding in plain sight. Needy glances and cold breeze against Martha’s nipples as she heaves, looking down at him lick at her clit and slide fingers into her on his knees on the hub’s stone perception filter. Quick ravishes in dark alleys behind pubs. One feverish public tryst in the middle of her hotel lobby where the perception filter around Jack had strayed her eyes away from him, so deep into a frenzy from him that even a puff of warm air on her ear could make her come. He takes her to the top of the highest building in Cardiff, and let’s her scream as loud as she’d like, wishing he could give her a sliver of the immortality he has come to terms with.
Watching her come is like an intoxicating religious experience, he thinks as she rides him one night in his quarters. He knows her now, enough to know when she’s close, and as she bounces on him, her legs open wider, she bites her lips, and her hands slowly slide off him, dangling at her sides. She stills, clenching around him so hard he hisses, and her head slides backward, back arched so deep that it looks like an invisible hand is picking her up by the chest. Flicks of a wet thumb against her clit, and she’s snapping back into her own body like she’s possessed, pleading for him. He listens to her screaming his name, and there’s history there, bittersweet. He gives into her, and when it’s over, he realizes that he’ll be forever at her service.
“I’m not him,” He whispers softly in her ear after, when they’re laying together. He’s not even sure whom he means: Tom, the Master, the Doctor, the man whom she met a few years back with a hand in a jar in his bag.
“I’m not him, either, Jack,” She smiles back, and the kiss that follows is all the sweeter.
If she’s his saint, then he’s her priest. It’s got potential for a good trade-off.
Fandom: Doctor Who (het)
Pairing: Jack/Martha
Rating: NC-17.
Warning: Spoilers through Doctor Who: 3x13
Word Count: ~700 Words
AN: Written for the Porn Battle, with the prompt 'I'm not him'. Went through a quick edit after posting.
“Doctor Jones,” Jack nods at her, coy. The second her exams were over, Jack made it known that she not only had a job waiting for her , a vacation and a walking tour of Cardiff as icing on the cake. They both knew it was merely an excuse to see each other, but there's something to be said for never admitting to that.
“Captian,” She responds, walking past. Her hand passes through the perception filter like she can see it, and he watches her walk to the sea. She stands at the edge, looking out. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It’s the only real thing that’s been beautiful in this city for quite a long time,” Jack responds, and when he reaches out to catch her hand, she warmly accepts, like they’re picking up right where some other potential lovers had left off. When he leads his mouth to hers, she gasps but melts onto him, like this is everything she’s never imagined when looking at him. The surprise gives him a rush, and that night when he pulls her into the hotel room bed, she relaxes and clings to him like wax.
The Master had called her St. Martha, once in the year that doesn’t count now, not for anybody around here. It counts to Jack, though. She’s his patron saint, and he whispers her name softly like a prayer as he slides into her. He's in debt to her simply because he knows what would have become of him were it not for her. She writhes in his arms deliciously, like she’s wanted to feel this since he met her all the way at the end of the universe, and their past is more than enough to justify his undying need for her, to drink her in and never let her go.
The lights are on, thankfully, and he watches her claw at him, hair scattered on her pillow, legs raising to join at his waist, eyes sliding shut as her mouth slides open. There’s nothing wrong with that, Jack thinks, as he sits her up, piles her in his lap, kissing her as he eases her head back gently to whisper her name, to whisper his thanks onto her skin like pearls.
This is so purple for him, it almost makes his teeth hurt. She deserves it, though, she deserves it for saving the world, and if the only way he can make her see that means convincing her with his body, with the only tools he has, then it will just have to do.
The walking tour had evolved into an indulgence for the both of them; an exercise in the eroticism of hiding in plain sight. Needy glances and cold breeze against Martha’s nipples as she heaves, looking down at him lick at her clit and slide fingers into her on his knees on the hub’s stone perception filter. Quick ravishes in dark alleys behind pubs. One feverish public tryst in the middle of her hotel lobby where the perception filter around Jack had strayed her eyes away from him, so deep into a frenzy from him that even a puff of warm air on her ear could make her come. He takes her to the top of the highest building in Cardiff, and let’s her scream as loud as she’d like, wishing he could give her a sliver of the immortality he has come to terms with.
Watching her come is like an intoxicating religious experience, he thinks as she rides him one night in his quarters. He knows her now, enough to know when she’s close, and as she bounces on him, her legs open wider, she bites her lips, and her hands slowly slide off him, dangling at her sides. She stills, clenching around him so hard he hisses, and her head slides backward, back arched so deep that it looks like an invisible hand is picking her up by the chest. Flicks of a wet thumb against her clit, and she’s snapping back into her own body like she’s possessed, pleading for him. He listens to her screaming his name, and there’s history there, bittersweet. He gives into her, and when it’s over, he realizes that he’ll be forever at her service.
“I’m not him,” He whispers softly in her ear after, when they’re laying together. He’s not even sure whom he means: Tom, the Master, the Doctor, the man whom she met a few years back with a hand in a jar in his bag.
“I’m not him, either, Jack,” She smiles back, and the kiss that follows is all the sweeter.
If she’s his saint, then he’s her priest. It’s got potential for a good trade-off.