prompt response: just_fck_me - 12.5 "Forbidden"
The Doctor and Martha are tucked away into a room at the hotel, taking full advantage of the room service. He's ended up with a pinstriped manicure, something that never fails to amuse Martha, especially after she's had a few mango margaritas. At any rate, she's sprawled out on the bed, while he's got his limbs splayed everywhere in an armchair, and he's perusing the list of what the hotel has to offer, trying to find something new.
"Mmm, these servants claim that they have the ability to grant you whatever your heart desires," he reads aloud, trailing his finger along the page. Martha watches the finger, a little mesmerised, and she thinks that maybe she's had too much to drink. This place has lulled her into complacency - and, what's more, it seems to have done the same to the Doctor, and that's worrying. "How d'you think they do that, Martha?" he continues.
She rolls over onto her back, staring at him upside-down. "I expect you tell them," she remarks, a little archly.
"Neru..." He rolls the name of the planet around the inside of his mouth, like he's trying to taste it. "Why's that planet sound familiar? What's so special about it?"
Martha stands up and, in one smooth motion, yanks the brochure away from him. "Well, while you're sitting here thinking, I'm going to go find out." She smirks at him, trying to ignore the fact that she's definitely not as steady on her feet as she could be. Ignoring the Doctor's wide-eyed and somewhat bewildered look, she calls room service and places her request.
A few minutes later, there's a knock at the door, and the Doctor jumps up from his seat. "Right, I'm just going to..." he gestures vaguely towards the bathroom. "Go in here for a bit."
She wonders if perhaps he's drunk - can Time Lords get drunk? Or is he just being avoidant? - before opening the door. The person waiting outside is wearing a cloak - a bit weird indoors, she thinks - the hood pulled up. Without warning, they press a pair of hands to her temples, and Martha has the vague sensation of something shifting, the figure in front of her growing taller - and she gasps as the man, for it's got to be a man, pushes his hood back, revealing an all-too-familiar face.
"But you're-" in the toilet, she starts to insist, and she knows it can't be the Doctor, that's impossible.
"Your heart's desire," he reminds her in a low, husky voice that somehow sounds identical to the Doctor's and completely unlike him at all.
Martha swallows hard as the robe falls to the floor, and she knows she ought to put a stop to this - it's wrong, especially with the real Doctor in the other room - but she hears the spray of the shower turn on, and, God, it's been ages, and, well, it's as close as she'll ever get to the real thing. She traces the angle of a hipbone with one finger, amazed to see that it's even mimicked his body temperature, cooler than a human's.
He draws her closer, tipping her chin up with long fingers, murmuring her name against her lips before he kisses her - and the feel of his body against hers is almost enough to make her forget that this is a clever forgery. The real Doctor wouldn't be like this, she thinks, and she can almost feel him subtly altering his mannerisms to match her thoughts - his once-nimble fingers are fumbling with her clothing now, where they had been sweeping across the bare skin of her back with deftness, skimming over the scars without paying any heed to them.
Martha drops her head to his shoulder, pressing her cheek against the bare hint of stubble on his chin as she lets her hands explore his chest. "You ought to eat more," she says quietly, feeling the curve of his ribs. He shivers at her touch, his skin prickling with gooseflesh, but he doesn't say anything, letting her continue her ministrations in silence. She can feel the doubled heartbeats pulsing just beneath his skin; she dips her head, kissing along the carotid artery to the notch of his collarbone, then nuzzling the hollow with her lips -
And suddenly he's taking charge, obviously impatient with her; her top falls to the floor, and he pushes her up against the wall, cupping her breasts and caressing them with a sort of wide-eyed fascination, the same rapt gaze he gives to everything that grabs his attention. She tangles her fingers in his hair as he starts licking, and she can't help letting a moan escape her throat as she lets her head fall back against the wall. He grins up at her when she moans, and in that moment, he looks precisely as he ought to, and Martha feels the last of her inhibitions drop away.
She reaches down, fisting his cock in her hand, suddenly that much more impatient - he's got her shoved up against a wall, after all, and he's positively ravishing her with his mouth - and then he groans against her skin and she grins breathlessly. Except before she knows it, he's gently moving her hand aside as he pulls down her jeans and knickers, and when he kneels before her, looking up at her with a dark, lusty look that Martha's never seen in his eyes before, she nearly comes then and there.
He pushes her thighs apart with feather-light touches, his fingertips skimming her sensitive skin, the coolness of his body a welcome contrast to the scorchinc heat she feels - and without warning, he starts licking her in broad sweeps, his tongue pressed flat against her, and she instinctively fists her hands in his hair, trying to keep her balance. Curses fall from her lips as she gasps for breath, arching her back and rutting against him, and then she's there, falling over the edge and crying out her release wordlessly. He pulls back, licking his lips in what Martha would call an obscene fashion were she able to think of such things, and sits on his heels, waiting for her to recover.
Martha slides bonelessly to the floor, watching him as she pants, her eyes riveted on his erection. Her muscles feel weak, but she somehow manages to push him back and straddle him, smirking down at him - this is her fantasy, after all, and her turn to take control. She teases him for a moment, rubbing against him; his eyelids flutter closed as he jerks his hips up against her.
She lifts up, grasping his cock in one hand, and then he's inside her, and God, it feels bloody fantastic. She whimpers a little as she moves on him, feeling far more desperate than she ought to, especially considering that she only just came - but she can already feel the tension tightening in her stomach, and she knows she won't last long, not now, and especially not when she can tell that he's so close. He's rolling his hips in time with hers, and then he pushes himself up into a sitting position to embrace her, drawing her close as he thrusts into her, wrapping arms and legs around her and whispering her name into her ear as if it's a chant - a prayer, or a plea, she's not sure which.
He reaches between them to rub her with a pair of fingers, and Martha cries out - the sensation overwhelms her, enveloping her until she can't think of anything else, her world narrowing down to just that as she comes again, barely registering him jerking against her as he's sent over the edge as well.
They collapse in a spent heap of limbs on the floor, panting for a few long moments. Martha nearly cuddles up to him, but catches herself just in time; he offers her an apologetic smile as he pulls free. Another touch of realism; she wouldn't expect the Doctor to stick around, either. He pulls on his white cloak as she manages to push herself up into a seated position against the bed - and he's gone just as quickly as he'd come, leaving Martha alone on the floor.
She eyes the bathroom dubiously; the real Doctor is clearly taking the world's longest shower, not that she minds, as walking in on her in the middle of coitus once is quite enough for her. She slips into a complimentary white terrycloth robe and waits for him to come out, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed and trying to look like she hasn't just been shagged within an inch of her life.
When he comes out, he's wearing one of the robes, too - pinstriped, oddly enough - his hair sticking every which way. "Telepaths," he says weakly, looking very pointedly at a corner of the ceiling. "They're telepaths. Time Lords can, ah, sense levels of psychic activity." He scratches the back of his head, sinking down into the chair, and Martha wonders if he knows just what went on - though, she thinks, he's probably decided that her visitor took Sam's shape, as thick as he is about that sort of thing.
And that's fine with her, because she doesn't want him to know the truth.
Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Warnings: Uh, explicit sex.
Notes: Based on settings in crowdedhour. Fic is non-binding on any and all muses involved.
"Mmm, these servants claim that they have the ability to grant you whatever your heart desires," he reads aloud, trailing his finger along the page. Martha watches the finger, a little mesmerised, and she thinks that maybe she's had too much to drink. This place has lulled her into complacency - and, what's more, it seems to have done the same to the Doctor, and that's worrying. "How d'you think they do that, Martha?" he continues.
She rolls over onto her back, staring at him upside-down. "I expect you tell them," she remarks, a little archly.
"Neru..." He rolls the name of the planet around the inside of his mouth, like he's trying to taste it. "Why's that planet sound familiar? What's so special about it?"
Martha stands up and, in one smooth motion, yanks the brochure away from him. "Well, while you're sitting here thinking, I'm going to go find out." She smirks at him, trying to ignore the fact that she's definitely not as steady on her feet as she could be. Ignoring the Doctor's wide-eyed and somewhat bewildered look, she calls room service and places her request.
A few minutes later, there's a knock at the door, and the Doctor jumps up from his seat. "Right, I'm just going to..." he gestures vaguely towards the bathroom. "Go in here for a bit."
She wonders if perhaps he's drunk - can Time Lords get drunk? Or is he just being avoidant? - before opening the door. The person waiting outside is wearing a cloak - a bit weird indoors, she thinks - the hood pulled up. Without warning, they press a pair of hands to her temples, and Martha has the vague sensation of something shifting, the figure in front of her growing taller - and she gasps as the man, for it's got to be a man, pushes his hood back, revealing an all-too-familiar face.
"But you're-" in the toilet, she starts to insist, and she knows it can't be the Doctor, that's impossible.
"Your heart's desire," he reminds her in a low, husky voice that somehow sounds identical to the Doctor's and completely unlike him at all.
Martha swallows hard as the robe falls to the floor, and she knows she ought to put a stop to this - it's wrong, especially with the real Doctor in the other room - but she hears the spray of the shower turn on, and, God, it's been ages, and, well, it's as close as she'll ever get to the real thing. She traces the angle of a hipbone with one finger, amazed to see that it's even mimicked his body temperature, cooler than a human's.
He draws her closer, tipping her chin up with long fingers, murmuring her name against her lips before he kisses her - and the feel of his body against hers is almost enough to make her forget that this is a clever forgery. The real Doctor wouldn't be like this, she thinks, and she can almost feel him subtly altering his mannerisms to match her thoughts - his once-nimble fingers are fumbling with her clothing now, where they had been sweeping across the bare skin of her back with deftness, skimming over the scars without paying any heed to them.
Martha drops her head to his shoulder, pressing her cheek against the bare hint of stubble on his chin as she lets her hands explore his chest. "You ought to eat more," she says quietly, feeling the curve of his ribs. He shivers at her touch, his skin prickling with gooseflesh, but he doesn't say anything, letting her continue her ministrations in silence. She can feel the doubled heartbeats pulsing just beneath his skin; she dips her head, kissing along the carotid artery to the notch of his collarbone, then nuzzling the hollow with her lips -
And suddenly he's taking charge, obviously impatient with her; her top falls to the floor, and he pushes her up against the wall, cupping her breasts and caressing them with a sort of wide-eyed fascination, the same rapt gaze he gives to everything that grabs his attention. She tangles her fingers in his hair as he starts licking, and she can't help letting a moan escape her throat as she lets her head fall back against the wall. He grins up at her when she moans, and in that moment, he looks precisely as he ought to, and Martha feels the last of her inhibitions drop away.
She reaches down, fisting his cock in her hand, suddenly that much more impatient - he's got her shoved up against a wall, after all, and he's positively ravishing her with his mouth - and then he groans against her skin and she grins breathlessly. Except before she knows it, he's gently moving her hand aside as he pulls down her jeans and knickers, and when he kneels before her, looking up at her with a dark, lusty look that Martha's never seen in his eyes before, she nearly comes then and there.
He pushes her thighs apart with feather-light touches, his fingertips skimming her sensitive skin, the coolness of his body a welcome contrast to the scorchinc heat she feels - and without warning, he starts licking her in broad sweeps, his tongue pressed flat against her, and she instinctively fists her hands in his hair, trying to keep her balance. Curses fall from her lips as she gasps for breath, arching her back and rutting against him, and then she's there, falling over the edge and crying out her release wordlessly. He pulls back, licking his lips in what Martha would call an obscene fashion were she able to think of such things, and sits on his heels, waiting for her to recover.
Martha slides bonelessly to the floor, watching him as she pants, her eyes riveted on his erection. Her muscles feel weak, but she somehow manages to push him back and straddle him, smirking down at him - this is her fantasy, after all, and her turn to take control. She teases him for a moment, rubbing against him; his eyelids flutter closed as he jerks his hips up against her.
She lifts up, grasping his cock in one hand, and then he's inside her, and God, it feels bloody fantastic. She whimpers a little as she moves on him, feeling far more desperate than she ought to, especially considering that she only just came - but she can already feel the tension tightening in her stomach, and she knows she won't last long, not now, and especially not when she can tell that he's so close. He's rolling his hips in time with hers, and then he pushes himself up into a sitting position to embrace her, drawing her close as he thrusts into her, wrapping arms and legs around her and whispering her name into her ear as if it's a chant - a prayer, or a plea, she's not sure which.
He reaches between them to rub her with a pair of fingers, and Martha cries out - the sensation overwhelms her, enveloping her until she can't think of anything else, her world narrowing down to just that as she comes again, barely registering him jerking against her as he's sent over the edge as well.
They collapse in a spent heap of limbs on the floor, panting for a few long moments. Martha nearly cuddles up to him, but catches herself just in time; he offers her an apologetic smile as he pulls free. Another touch of realism; she wouldn't expect the Doctor to stick around, either. He pulls on his white cloak as she manages to push herself up into a seated position against the bed - and he's gone just as quickly as he'd come, leaving Martha alone on the floor.
She eyes the bathroom dubiously; the real Doctor is clearly taking the world's longest shower, not that she minds, as walking in on her in the middle of coitus once is quite enough for her. She slips into a complimentary white terrycloth robe and waits for him to come out, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed and trying to look like she hasn't just been shagged within an inch of her life.
When he comes out, he's wearing one of the robes, too - pinstriped, oddly enough - his hair sticking every which way. "Telepaths," he says weakly, looking very pointedly at a corner of the ceiling. "They're telepaths. Time Lords can, ah, sense levels of psychic activity." He scratches the back of his head, sinking down into the chair, and Martha wonders if he knows just what went on - though, she thinks, he's probably decided that her visitor took Sam's shape, as thick as he is about that sort of thing.
And that's fine with her, because she doesn't want him to know the truth.
Muse: Martha Jones
Fandom: Doctor Who
Warnings: Uh, explicit sex.
Notes: Based on settings in crowdedhour. Fic is non-binding on any and all muses involved.