Porn Battle Fic xplay: Wartime Companion
Title: Wartime Companion
Fandom-Pairing: Doctor Who/Supernatural- Martha/Dean
Rating-Word Count- Notes: NC-17, ~1000 Words, for Oxoniensis' Porn Battle under the prompt of Hair. Takes place during Martha's 365 days walking the Master's earth, although Dean's place in the plot is complete crossover AU. I reworked the scene completely post-entry, but the original framework is there and pretty much the same.
Finally, they decide to have a proper spar in the far corner of Death Valley, far enough away from the slums of Vegas and the missile fields of the desert that they can be as loud and rough as possible. They may be invisible to the Master, to his minions, but it never hurts to be safe, Martha supposes, and Dean simply presses his lips together and agrees in silence when she gives him the ultimatum. She doesn't know how to shoot a gun and is still kind of afraid of all that steel, power in her hands, aiming sure in the way that Dean often has while she's traveled with him. She does know how to fight rather well, though. Learned while traveling through Russia, although she's no master of it, she knows more than she did when she started and is sure she can take her own.
He holds back with her, even though this was his idea in the first place, says he can't find it in himself to hit girls, was brought up better than that and she doesn't ask when he begins to look off into the distance like he's got some montage in his head. Instead, she checks him, right in the gut and he takes it like he's an old pro, a quick grunt and then looks up at her like she just pulled the dirtiest move in history.
"I hit, you block," she orders, light on her feet and aching for the action. She's a fireball, launches an assault that he keeps up with flawlessly, fucking with his footwork and messing with his mind and stepping out of herself to think of all she's accomplished and all the things she's got left to do.
It's abysmally cold in the valley, they're still tuckered into woolen pea coats and jeans, and Martha cowers in her jacket before delivering another punch, ignoring the sand in her shoes or the way the moon's falling on the two of them and the car like a tattletale, telling the Master where she is and what She's doing.
Finally, they stop, bending over to catch their breath, and Dean clasps her on the shoulder.
"You thought I was going to be a wuss, didn't you?" She asks.
"Thought you were gonna fight like a girl," he replies.
"What, Dean, glad I didn't pull your hair?" She asks, but he pulls her up to kiss her, his lips sucking on her own as he pushes her backwards and presses her against the hot iron of the hood of his car, careful not to scratch the paint or mess the polish. He frees her hair from her ponytail, and kisses her as deep as he can muster, like he's promising her the world, letting her know he'll fight for her like he did for his family, even if he was the only one to survive.
She feels like the cross between a warrior and an outlaw right now as they make out in the dry air, lips locked like they're all each other has, her hair down and licking at her shoulders as he pulls his fingers in it. She doesn't have nearly as much to pull at, Dean's hair choppy and styled. Still, she kisses back as fiercely as he does, like all they have is the now, all that matters is this moment.
"So, if I fuck you, what number will I be on that gun belt of yours?" She asks, looking up at him, refuge from responsibility and a world on fire. Her thighs shift softly, and she wonders if the burning in her jeans is from the hot car or her throbbing core.
"Does it matter?" he asks, "Do you really want to know? Not like they matter, not like they're at all like you."
He almost throws her down in front of the car, picking her up and swinging her so they both land in the sand, lips locked as her legs grip tight at the back of her thighs.
He pushes her hips down, opening her jeans deftly and shimmying them down her legs, signaling his intent to lick at her core, lifting her into his lap as she arches her back fingers sinking into the sand. He bows his head, takes her lips into his mouth and his eyes sparkle as she groans, still in her coat, fingers sinking into the wool of his shoulders. He peels her open with his tongue, pushing labia back to lick a searing path along the line of her clit and her cunt and back again, tongue in soft circles that make her mouth fall open in silent trembles, like a scream's crawling around in the back of her throat. He brushes across it one way, then the other, finding the parts of her clit are the most sensitive before sliding back down and licking at her cunt, tongue burrowing it's way inside. She's quiet, but that doesn't mean she isn't close to coming, tip of his tongue dancing around her until her vision's fading at the edges, rocking her hips as she groans, fingers settling in what little hair she can grab at. "Dean."
He stops, holding her gaze as he catches his breath, looking at her. His face is vulgar-wet with her come, "I love how you say my name in that accent."
"Never been with an english girl, then, Dean?" she asks, pulling him up for a kiss.
"Never been with a girl that," He pauses, softly, "fuck, tastes so good."
"Such a cheesy comeback," she grins, before he goes back to finish his task between her legs. "Fuck me, god."
He does it with his tongue, dancing between clit and cunt over and over again until she's announcing how close she is to coming, and when he stops at just the right time, she doesn't know what to do with herself, wants to shove him along just a little further.
"Please, please please, please. Dean, come up here and do it proper, don't make me beg anymore," she says, softly and he looks up at her with a naughty grin, lifting his head and pushing himself up.
He pushes her hips flat down into the dirt and undoes his pants, slipping the condom over himself and pushing right in, sliding in softly, hands all over her. "God, you're tight, Martha."
She bites her lip before arching up and sliding her lips over his, teeth nipping at the thick outline of his lips. He bears down on her, hands linked around her like a belt, thrusting into her with intensity. They're quiet, like they know they have to be quiet unless they're going to fuck each other to death, because protection spells and perception filters rarely will stop them getting caught from being too loud. They roll around on the ground in the cool desert night air.
"Please," She says, voice raked. "Harder, Dean. Fuck me, it's been so long."
He holds her close, moves like water as they roll back and forth in the dirt, bodies covered in dusky sand. She twines her thighs around his hips, and lets him control the pace and angle, and finally he turns her over and lets her sit on him, square. There is only a sliver of moon, and the whole world feels like her bedroom as she looks down at him, and he slides a hand into her hair. He lets it twirl and knot in his fingers, and slides a finger into her mouth, letting her suck it before siding it down between her legs, rubbing at her until she's shaking, crying out wet and squeezing around him.
"Save us, Martha," He whispers, rolling her around again and pinning her down, lips pressed against hers as he comes, shaking to completion.
It's the most honest request she's gotten in such a long time, from someone she'd come to admire, sure, but had been careful to avoid the subject of her place in all of this, her place in the folklore. It's not a plea, mind you, but a prayer, a whisper in her ear in his time of weakness, scratchy wool against her thighs and sand on his knees. They'll come to regret a lot of things in the morning, including the fact that they decided to do things here instead of in an abandoned motel somewhere, or a place where actual sheets would have come in handy. She hopes, though, that he doesn't regret saying that, letting himself rest in her arms as he explodes, relief and passion spiraling down into him.
They break apart reluctantly, searching for clothes, and breath and everything else. She stands, walking back to the impala, reaching to tie her hair back up, but Dean's hand stops her.
"Leave it. You look beautiful," He says, as he turns and holds her gaze until she brushes a lock out of her face. He takes her in his hands, leaning her against the car as he presses his lips to hers in a hungry kiss. "Get in, We need to go."
She knows it isn't over, and looks forward to spooning against his wide and warm chest in the backseat, or breaking into a motel room with just one bed in it, this time.
She's not in love, but she may hold a gun for him just yet.
Fandom-Pairing: Doctor Who/Supernatural- Martha/Dean
Rating-Word Count- Notes: NC-17, ~1000 Words, for Oxoniensis' Porn Battle under the prompt of Hair. Takes place during Martha's 365 days walking the Master's earth, although Dean's place in the plot is complete crossover AU. I reworked the scene completely post-entry, but the original framework is there and pretty much the same.
Finally, they decide to have a proper spar in the far corner of Death Valley, far enough away from the slums of Vegas and the missile fields of the desert that they can be as loud and rough as possible. They may be invisible to the Master, to his minions, but it never hurts to be safe, Martha supposes, and Dean simply presses his lips together and agrees in silence when she gives him the ultimatum. She doesn't know how to shoot a gun and is still kind of afraid of all that steel, power in her hands, aiming sure in the way that Dean often has while she's traveled with him. She does know how to fight rather well, though. Learned while traveling through Russia, although she's no master of it, she knows more than she did when she started and is sure she can take her own.
He holds back with her, even though this was his idea in the first place, says he can't find it in himself to hit girls, was brought up better than that and she doesn't ask when he begins to look off into the distance like he's got some montage in his head. Instead, she checks him, right in the gut and he takes it like he's an old pro, a quick grunt and then looks up at her like she just pulled the dirtiest move in history.
"I hit, you block," she orders, light on her feet and aching for the action. She's a fireball, launches an assault that he keeps up with flawlessly, fucking with his footwork and messing with his mind and stepping out of herself to think of all she's accomplished and all the things she's got left to do.
It's abysmally cold in the valley, they're still tuckered into woolen pea coats and jeans, and Martha cowers in her jacket before delivering another punch, ignoring the sand in her shoes or the way the moon's falling on the two of them and the car like a tattletale, telling the Master where she is and what She's doing.
Finally, they stop, bending over to catch their breath, and Dean clasps her on the shoulder.
"You thought I was going to be a wuss, didn't you?" She asks.
"Thought you were gonna fight like a girl," he replies.
"What, Dean, glad I didn't pull your hair?" She asks, but he pulls her up to kiss her, his lips sucking on her own as he pushes her backwards and presses her against the hot iron of the hood of his car, careful not to scratch the paint or mess the polish. He frees her hair from her ponytail, and kisses her as deep as he can muster, like he's promising her the world, letting her know he'll fight for her like he did for his family, even if he was the only one to survive.
She feels like the cross between a warrior and an outlaw right now as they make out in the dry air, lips locked like they're all each other has, her hair down and licking at her shoulders as he pulls his fingers in it. She doesn't have nearly as much to pull at, Dean's hair choppy and styled. Still, she kisses back as fiercely as he does, like all they have is the now, all that matters is this moment.
"So, if I fuck you, what number will I be on that gun belt of yours?" She asks, looking up at him, refuge from responsibility and a world on fire. Her thighs shift softly, and she wonders if the burning in her jeans is from the hot car or her throbbing core.
"Does it matter?" he asks, "Do you really want to know? Not like they matter, not like they're at all like you."
He almost throws her down in front of the car, picking her up and swinging her so they both land in the sand, lips locked as her legs grip tight at the back of her thighs.
He pushes her hips down, opening her jeans deftly and shimmying them down her legs, signaling his intent to lick at her core, lifting her into his lap as she arches her back fingers sinking into the sand. He bows his head, takes her lips into his mouth and his eyes sparkle as she groans, still in her coat, fingers sinking into the wool of his shoulders. He peels her open with his tongue, pushing labia back to lick a searing path along the line of her clit and her cunt and back again, tongue in soft circles that make her mouth fall open in silent trembles, like a scream's crawling around in the back of her throat. He brushes across it one way, then the other, finding the parts of her clit are the most sensitive before sliding back down and licking at her cunt, tongue burrowing it's way inside. She's quiet, but that doesn't mean she isn't close to coming, tip of his tongue dancing around her until her vision's fading at the edges, rocking her hips as she groans, fingers settling in what little hair she can grab at. "Dean."
He stops, holding her gaze as he catches his breath, looking at her. His face is vulgar-wet with her come, "I love how you say my name in that accent."
"Never been with an english girl, then, Dean?" she asks, pulling him up for a kiss.
"Never been with a girl that," He pauses, softly, "fuck, tastes so good."
"Such a cheesy comeback," she grins, before he goes back to finish his task between her legs. "Fuck me, god."
He does it with his tongue, dancing between clit and cunt over and over again until she's announcing how close she is to coming, and when he stops at just the right time, she doesn't know what to do with herself, wants to shove him along just a little further.
"Please, please please, please. Dean, come up here and do it proper, don't make me beg anymore," she says, softly and he looks up at her with a naughty grin, lifting his head and pushing himself up.
He pushes her hips flat down into the dirt and undoes his pants, slipping the condom over himself and pushing right in, sliding in softly, hands all over her. "God, you're tight, Martha."
She bites her lip before arching up and sliding her lips over his, teeth nipping at the thick outline of his lips. He bears down on her, hands linked around her like a belt, thrusting into her with intensity. They're quiet, like they know they have to be quiet unless they're going to fuck each other to death, because protection spells and perception filters rarely will stop them getting caught from being too loud. They roll around on the ground in the cool desert night air.
"Please," She says, voice raked. "Harder, Dean. Fuck me, it's been so long."
He holds her close, moves like water as they roll back and forth in the dirt, bodies covered in dusky sand. She twines her thighs around his hips, and lets him control the pace and angle, and finally he turns her over and lets her sit on him, square. There is only a sliver of moon, and the whole world feels like her bedroom as she looks down at him, and he slides a hand into her hair. He lets it twirl and knot in his fingers, and slides a finger into her mouth, letting her suck it before siding it down between her legs, rubbing at her until she's shaking, crying out wet and squeezing around him.
"Save us, Martha," He whispers, rolling her around again and pinning her down, lips pressed against hers as he comes, shaking to completion.
It's the most honest request she's gotten in such a long time, from someone she'd come to admire, sure, but had been careful to avoid the subject of her place in all of this, her place in the folklore. It's not a plea, mind you, but a prayer, a whisper in her ear in his time of weakness, scratchy wool against her thighs and sand on his knees. They'll come to regret a lot of things in the morning, including the fact that they decided to do things here instead of in an abandoned motel somewhere, or a place where actual sheets would have come in handy. She hopes, though, that he doesn't regret saying that, letting himself rest in her arms as he explodes, relief and passion spiraling down into him.
They break apart reluctantly, searching for clothes, and breath and everything else. She stands, walking back to the impala, reaching to tie her hair back up, but Dean's hand stops her.
"Leave it. You look beautiful," He says, as he turns and holds her gaze until she brushes a lock out of her face. He takes her in his hands, leaning her against the car as he presses his lips to hers in a hungry kiss. "Get in, We need to go."
She knows it isn't over, and looks forward to spooning against his wide and warm chest in the backseat, or breaking into a motel room with just one bed in it, this time.
She's not in love, but she may hold a gun for him just yet.