Porn Battle Entries
Porn Battle has been and gone, leaving behind loads and loads of porn. (Which I haven't had a chance to fully enjoy just yet. Weekend, get here soon!)
My offerings are below, unbetaed but full of porn.
Title: The Other You
Fandom: Mulan
Characters/Pairing: Fa Mulan/Li Shang
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: pegging, man, Ping, sword
***
Men often came together in quiet ways during times of war. Even Shang's father had his favorites, handsome men whose loyalty was not merely born of patriotism and duty. Shang himself had little time for the courtship of young women, nor for the pleasure of young men, and yet his own first lover had been a grizzled old soldier under his father's command. Shang remembered calluses and gruff touches that passed for endearments, and his tutelage in the field as well as their shared tent.
Thus, when the difficult young soldier under his own first real command turned into the bravest and most brilliant, it was hardly worth noting that Shang's eye had been turned. His discovery of Ping's secret, and worse, that Ping had never existed at all, cut him deeper than mere insubordination or deceit.
Now Shang has a wife who can use a sword better than she can cook, and he loves her, he knows he does. But Shang loved Ping before he ever met Mulan.
She bites him when they kiss, nips at his tongue and jaw. They grapple, nearly wrestling. He falls with Mulan above him, squirming. She's gorgeous in this half-darkness, only lit by the starlight, and he loves too that he sees them both in the shadows: the woman he loves, and her bespoke twin.
"I need you," Shang growls in her ear. He hisses as she strokes him, firm hand smooth and strong on his sensitive skin.
"And I need you," she teases back.
Fair is fair, he knows, and he pushes her down with a grin, his warm hands spreading her wide. She gasps, she always gasps, when his tongue first brushes through her crisp curls to the sleek, wet skin beneath. He settles on his elbows, drawing her out gently with lips and tiny bites, fingers stroking her until she is writhing.
"Now." Mulan's voice is ragged. He considers pushing her over, but this is better, so much better. With one more lick, Shang pulls away, lets his beautiful, naked wife totter to her knees.
He paid perhaps too much in the quietest corner of the market for this smoothly polished length of wood. As she pours oil over the end, Shang muses he may not have paid enough.
She says, "Turn." Her voice has gone firm. Shang turns his body, facing away and trembling in excitement.
"Please," he says. "Please."
Her fingers push against the ticklish flesh of his entrance, just as his brushed against hers. Slick oil covers him, and Shang breathes in as Mulan pushes the wooden phallus inside him.
Tears prick Shang's eyes: pain, tender and taut. Then her coated hand strokes him wetly and he shouts.
Her movements stop. "Say it."
Shang bites his lip. "Please," he says again.
"No, Shang." The voice behind him is fake gravelly. The phallus inside him is hard and motionless. "Beg me."
"Please, Ping," says Shang, and as soon as the words erupt, he is assaulted with pleasure, a hand on his cock and the sure thrusts into his ass. His words are a litany now: Ping, please, please, Ping.
The thrusts stop. He turns to see as the shadowy figure behind him repositions, and the other end of the long phallus disappears between legs Shang can barely see. A new rhythm sets up, rocking the toy between them, clumsy touches stroking him. He pushes the other hand away, taking over, and feels the hand move back, begin to rub and circle where the phallus meets his love's body.
It's not long, not now, until lightning flashes behind his eyes, and he shoots onto the blanket beneath them. "Please," he says one last time, and feels the spasms behind him, replete in orgasm.
They always exchange I love yous after sex, disengaging and kissing tiredly, and tonight is no exception. They curl into each other like puppies. Mulan loves him, and Shang loves Mulan. He's almost sure she doesn't mind that he also loves a man who doesn't exist.
***
Title: Timing
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairing: 9th Doctor/River
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: first time, last time, glasses, curl, against the wall
***
It isn't every student who can bend Luna University's stringent rules about time travel in order to finish a paper. Truth be told, River isn't technically on the list of students with permission. However, a strategic kiss here, and a misdirection there, and why look, that bit of tech on loan from the Time Agency just happens to land in her hand.
She always has been curious about the start of the rebellion on the third moon of Galliod. Sources say the miners had enough of the poor wages and terrible working conditions, but sources fail to explain why the same conditions over the past three thousand years hadn't led to a faster revolution. River has her own thesis, and she's ready to take notes.
She meets him in a shady eating-house in the worst part of the shantytown where the miners live. They're the only two people in the place who look completely human; it's her private joke that she knows she's not. He's severely handsome with his close-cropped hair and sharp features, not pretty like most of her lovers, something more dangerous. She's not her normally gorgeous self, either, with her curls carefully flattened and mischievous eyes hidden by thick glasses that help her peer through the weird gaseous layers of the moon's atmosphere. But he can't stop staring at her.
"I've heard about Time Agents," he warns her the first time they're alone, pointing to the borrowed computer on her wrist.
She's reckless tonight. "It's all true. We're exactly as bad as you think." Impersonating a Time Agent carries a prison sentence, but only if she gets caught.
She fucks him for the first time up against the wall of the rented room. Odd: he looks and sounds like a veteran of too many wars, but he makes love like a virgin. He lets her lead, and River is only too happy. She perfected her skills long ago, wearing another body and using poor stupid Jeff as a dildo when none of the other boys or girls would play. She works her new friend like an orgasm-dispensing machine, all tight control waiting for her to suck and stroke the right lever.
"Why are you here?" he asks her, as they lay exhausted on what's probably a bug-infested mattress. He told her mid-fuck that his name is John. Equally invested in anonymity, she told him hers is Jane.
He's a time traveller like she is, that much is clear. "I've come to observe the start of the miners' revolt. You?"
"I'm here to prevent it."
It turns out they're both incorrect. River shows the wrong amount of leg at the wrong time, and follows by showing the wrong amount of boob. John helps rescue a miner's child from a sink hole, and tells her mother that she deserves to grow up in a better world. Three days later, the revolt is in full swing, but, River notes with some amusement, it's not nearly as bloody as her books said.
"I have to go," John says, but he stays one more night, nuzzling her open as she's taught him, cold hands and cold mouth turning her belly to fire with every lick. He's in pain she can't touch, and every moment with her buries it for a while. She herself is on a great journey, and can spare him the surcease as she digs through stone histories for evidence of the good man she wants to believe her mother knows. The records says the Doctor came here. River laughs a little inside her head, coming apart under this stranger's mouth and fingers and cool cock for the last heady time. He'll be gone before she wakes. River needs to leave soon as well, and regrets not finding what she came for.
She wonders if she's too late to find him, but only when John leaves does she wonder if she's too early after all.
***
Title: Where We Go
Fandom: Star Wars
Characters/Pairing: Obi-Wan/Padmé Amidala
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: cloak, secrets, time, hidden, sand, taste
***
No one can know.
She is a respected diplomat, former Queen and now Senator of Naboo. He's a Jedi Knight, sworn to uphold the Republic, to use the Force in righteousness, and not to dally. If they are discovered, it will bring shame to both. If they are discovered by Anakin, who knows what he'll do. Padmé loves Anakin as much as she dares, knowing by now how dangerous he's become. She watches the darkness inside him, and she thinks, hopes, prays, that she will be enough to hold him from the precipice. Ben loves him just as much, and in the same worried fashion. They don't want to hurt him, and they don't want him hurting anyone else.
But this hidden pleasure the two of them have eked out, this is theirs. When he spreads out his cloak in an abandoned corridor, it serves them as a finer bed than her apartments, or even the bed she used as Queen. He tastes her skin, beard prickling the soft flesh of her breasts, of her navel, of her pubis, and it's all Padmé can do to bite back her joy. This man knows her, would love her entirely and without reservation had they both not greater duties. His lips suckle at her tender pink nub, the place she presses nightly, awake and wanting after Anakin has taken his pleasure and rolled over to sleep. She dares not call her lover by his given name, nor by his true name, not where someone can hear. Instead she writes the words of her love against his cheeks, into his scalp, and draws his face to her, rolling atop him and taking him inside her effortlessly.
Ben is more reckless than she, moaning a prayerful "Amidala," into the skin of her neck. She rides him fiercely, quickly, pushing against him for her own enjoyment and knowing he is drinking her down in kisses, thrusting hard. She burns through her climax, and heads straight for another without pausing.
With a startled moan, he withdraws, spilling to the thirsty fabric of his cloak rather than within her. Padmé bites back her unhappiness, understanding his reasons. She dreams of days spent with this man, together under a hot sun instead of furtive couplings in shadows, but it's as forbidden as her marriage, and far more irresponsible to imagine.
She smooths the hair from his face, doesn't tell him she loves him.
Someday.
***
Title: Your People Will Be My People
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairing: Jenny Flint/Madame Vastra, Strax
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: tongue, fingering, wedding
***
The thing about marriages, Jenny learned, was that it had never occurred to Her Majesty or anyone else to say which ones weren't couth. When a diplomat arrived in London with his three wives, eyebrows were raised certainly. Filthy and rude jokes abounded. But not a soul claimed he wasn't wed to all three. Why, hadn't the Biblical patriarchs had more than one wife, Isaac and Jacob and David and Solomon?
Jenny wasn't one much for the Bible any more, not after the cruel lessons she'd picked up in the orphanage, the beatings she'd been given in God's name. But she was passing fond of the story of Ruth and Naomi.
Her lady, her love, spoke her vows in the tongue of her own people: you are mine and I am yours and we are for and of each other. Jenny found a tattered old leatherbound book and gave the pledge she'd already made: where you go I will go and where you stay I will stay. Strax made a poor preacher and a poorer judge, but he was no fool, and he mumbled something appropriately pious to someone's god and only made two or three attempts to start a war.
It didn't matter. They were wed, and no man could come between them.
Vastra was lovely, green and undulant under Jenny's tender touch. Jenny served her first, loving her the greater (Vastra said it was the reverse, that she loved Jenny more). Her wife - her wife! - tasted as delightfully smoky as she did yesterday, but Jenny lingered because she could, tickling at the tenderest scales, running eager fingers under crests until Vastra swore and moaned and called Jenny a terrible tease. It was always this way, her impatient mistress wanting the full pleasure of Jenny's tongue, and Jenny rude and playful in her denials.
The payback was just as sweet, Vastra's truly perfect tongue crawling the length of Jenny's body, her strong, talented fingers driving home into Jenny's eager cunt as her nose teased Jenny's equally eager clit. Vastra fucked dirty, and hard, and Jenny quaked with every stroke, shouted again and again at the unrelenting onslaught of single-minded pleasuring.
They went until they were too tired to move, too tired to speak, loving each other in turn, and collapsing limply to the bed they'd shared these several years like two spent newlyweds. Jenny couldn't imagine being happier.
"Madame," she said, in the teasing tone she liked to take, the one that made Vastra smile like a naughty green nun. "What'd'you say tomorrow we get married again?"
"What a perfect plan," Vastra agreed, and kissed her.
***
Title: Novelty
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: games, domesticity, avant garde
***
Sometimes, the domesticity scares him.
They still fight aliens, naturally, and they still work with the non-lethal ones. Gunplay isn't a kind of sex game (usually) nearly so much as it saves their necks. The Earth and Cardiff are in danger more often than a hero's love interest in a badly-written film, seemingly back in harm's way after barely a moment's time for some quick kissing. It's all very exciting. Honestly. Quite.
But when he and Jack are home, things are frankly so normal to be a bit terrifying. He's learned to cook under Jack's patient if inconsistent teaching, though Jack still makes the majority of the meals they eat here. Jack leaves him the washing-up too often, but does show up to dry, using the tea towel to drag Ianto in for kisses when the crockery isn't endangered. Their neighbours genially tolerate the odd hours and invite them over for dinners and parties they can't accept. Even the housework is mundane, the dusting and hoovering traded off as neatly as you please.
"What?" Jack asks, after an early night (and no bad thing, bloody Rift back in full fury after that lull Ianto had let himself believe was the new status quo, their first night home before eight in a week, ugh). He's folding underclothes, and looks frankly ridiculous with socks spread around him in neat piles on the bed.
Ianto frowns. "Do you see this?" He waves his arm, taking in the neat bedroom, the whole flat really. "What are we doing?"
"Folding," Jack says, like Ianto's an idiot.
"This is surreal," Ianto shoots back. "You're Captain Jack 'I've Shagged Half the Galaxy and the Other Half Are Next' Harkness. Why are you folding my socks?"
He hears the other question curl up in his voice, and he doesn't like it. He sits down heavily on the bed, away from Jack.
"We don't have to fold the socks."
"Jack."
Jack breathes. "What's the sexiest thing we've ever done?"
"What?"
"Pick."
Ianto thinks back, remembering nights spent spread-eagled in this bed, nights spent tying Jack meticulously to his desk and buggering him hard, nights spent drawing his name in alien languages over Jack's skin with chocolate paints and eating him clean again. "I can't pick." What would Jack choose, given every dalliance they'd every undertaken? Jack likes the feel of Ianto's fingers stretching him open, and Ianto knows Jack loves nothing more than the blunt head of a cock pushing into him, with his cries muffled by a thick rubber gag and his body convulsing with effort. Would he pick that?
"I can," Jack says with simple certainty. "The sexiest thing we ever did was in the living room. You turned on a programme you didn't want to watch, and you fell asleep with your head on my shoulder."
"But that's … " He struggles for words.
"Amazing," replies Jack. "It was amazing." And it occurs to Ianto that this is just like the office: something incredibly mundane is out of Jack's experience. "I'm more than happy to drive my tongue into your mouth then deep into your arse, to strip you in the back of the SUV and suck you down like a lolly. That's fun. But this? Folding socks and washing the plates? That's special. That's new." He grins. Jack is nothing if not a sucker for novelty.
"Fair enough," Ianto says, mind ticking over the images Jack has conjured. "And I understand. But perhaps we could … " He raises his eyebrows suggestively. " … up the game now and then?"
Jack's grin widens. He grabs three socks, tying two together to make a longer cord, and deliberately brings the third up to Ianto's mouth. After a moment, he opens and lets Jack push just enough inside. Then Jack removes Ianto's shirt and ties his wrists together.
By morning, the socks are stretched out beyond any possible wear, but Ianto is too tired and happy, and just sore enough in the right places, to give a damn.
***
Title: Frost
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairings: Ianto Jones/Toshiko Sato, past Tosh/Owen, past Tosh/Mary
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: snow, green
AN: Prequel to What to Expect
***
Their first time is less than a month after Owen's death. It's just the two of them left, cold and terrified and out of ammunition, hiding in the outskirts of Copenhagen. Gwen left them a week ago, striking out on her own to get back to Wales and search for her fiancé amongst the ruins. She took one of the guns and left a note not to follow. Tosh doesn't know if it's because she wanted to keep them safe, or if Gwen was acknowledging she had the best chance of survival and success without two hangers-on.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, except the ever-present snow, driving them into shared blankets. It's hardly a leap after that, to take more comfort from the warm body beside her. Ianto's body is nothing like Tosh expected, too furry for her tastes and broad where his suits had implied slimness. He smells bad, they both do, and her nose is going to give up soon without a prayer of a bath. He hasn't seen the good side of a razor since they left for the Himalayas.
But his hands are gentle, and his mouth is kind. Tosh accepts the sweet, chilly kisses, not asking who's behind his closed eyes. Her own fantasies are firmly in place. It's an easy understanding. Ianto's fingers move deftly between her legs, rubbing circles with his thumb. Her body is changing: too lean from the thin rations, new blood thickening her sensitive labia as her hormones shift. The baby is only the size of a nut, and already taking over her life. This should be her baby's father deliberately sliding two wet fingers into Tosh, spreading and teasing, not the only friend she has left.
They're too chilly to strip, even in the cocoon of blankets. She hooks her thumbs on the fastener of his jeans, working button and zip as he pushes her knickers further out of his way. It's a hot, fast coupling then, almost too rough. She's wet enough, and Ianto's breathing hard into her neck, the only noise he makes. He's nothing like Owen, nothing like Mary, nothing like anyone but who he is. She squeezes her own eyes shut, casting for a better moment to encourage her own peak.
She remembers how it was with Owen, finally perfect after so long wanting, how he'd burned into her.
She remembers Mary's devilish face peeking up over the flat, smooth horizon of Toshiko's own belly, before she ducked down to offer more pleasure.
She remembers that one time with Jack, when she was too new to know he made passes at everyone.
She remembers spring, full of green grass and life, not locked away here in the cold darkness, waiting for their chance to sprint to the next refugee camp.
His orgasm builds fast, and in a moment, he's jerking into her, lost in whatever memory he's wearing in her place. Tosh wriggles, aiming for just a little more friction, a little better angle. She's close, not close enough, and he's softening too fast as he withdraws.
Tosh blinks back cold tears, and Ianto pushes a kiss into her mouth, as his hand replaces his cock, sure and quick. His thumb goes back to her clit whilst his smallest finger prods her arsehole. The sudden intrusion shocks her, and she fights into the kiss, coming unexpectedly on his fingers, surging at his touch. When she blinks and breathes, he's got a self-satisfied expression on his face, which is a welcome change from the sorrow they've both worn these last long months.
"Better?"
"Warm now," she agrees, happy to note the tingles all over her body. He reaches for her properly, pulling her close, both of them still clothed except between hip and knee. The blankets smell even worse. Tosh decides not to care.
In the morning, they strike out for the city. In the evening, he robs a jewellery store and brings her back a matched set of rings. It's hardly romantic, merely a practicality for a woman who's soon to show and the man she's travelling with. But she holds his hand as they walk, avoiding the main roads with the soldiers and the floating balls of giggling murderers, and she looks for signs of spring.
***
Title: Perchance
Fandom: Star Trek:TNG
Characters/Pairing: Beverly Crusher/Jean-Luc Picard
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: voice, implants, dream, H/C
Warning: implied non-con
***
He still dreams about the implant, jutting out uncomfortably in the back of his head, dreams about hearing Beverly's thoughts inside his own. There is no one he's been so close to, so intimate with, as when their minds touched, cracking apart with secrets like chocolate eggs. They both dreamed that night, dreamed of limbs entwining sinuously by the fire, of mouths meeting while voices continued their murmurs pledging emotions they couldn't speak. He relives the dreams of her hands on him, knowing because he knows how best to stroke and lave and love him.
He still dreams about the other implants, crawling into his flesh like burrowing insects, dreams about hearing the thoughts of the Collective inside his head. The part of him that remained unique had never been so frightened, so bruised, so violated, as he'd fought not to crack apart. He dreams of the Borg, of their hands seizing him like machines, of being held down as his flesh was torn and his humanity stripped from him like gobbets of meat from a bone. He relives those long hours, as the Collective ate him from inside, knowing how to hurt him because it was him.
"Wake up, Jean-Luc," says a voice from far away, and he can't, he's held down and can't breathe, and warm lips cover his, yielding life with a gasp.
Beverly leans over him, hair tousled and face drawn into worry. He's come to know every single line on her mouth and forehead, and recognizes how many have been etched by him. He draws his thumb to trace one now, a short wrinkle by the left side of her lips. Beverly turns her head to kiss the thumb.
"Same dream?" she asks, without a question.
"Always."
She kisses him, offering her friendship and listening ear as well as her love. He takes both, greedy for the gift. She's ready for him, joining her body to his without preamble. Foreplay is for later, for when they make love properly, delighting in the too-long denied joy of one another. Now is for simple connection, him sliding home inside her like a prayer, like a dream that has no end.
My offerings are below, unbetaed but full of porn.
Title: The Other You
Fandom: Mulan
Characters/Pairing: Fa Mulan/Li Shang
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: pegging, man, Ping, sword
***
Men often came together in quiet ways during times of war. Even Shang's father had his favorites, handsome men whose loyalty was not merely born of patriotism and duty. Shang himself had little time for the courtship of young women, nor for the pleasure of young men, and yet his own first lover had been a grizzled old soldier under his father's command. Shang remembered calluses and gruff touches that passed for endearments, and his tutelage in the field as well as their shared tent.
Thus, when the difficult young soldier under his own first real command turned into the bravest and most brilliant, it was hardly worth noting that Shang's eye had been turned. His discovery of Ping's secret, and worse, that Ping had never existed at all, cut him deeper than mere insubordination or deceit.
Now Shang has a wife who can use a sword better than she can cook, and he loves her, he knows he does. But Shang loved Ping before he ever met Mulan.
She bites him when they kiss, nips at his tongue and jaw. They grapple, nearly wrestling. He falls with Mulan above him, squirming. She's gorgeous in this half-darkness, only lit by the starlight, and he loves too that he sees them both in the shadows: the woman he loves, and her bespoke twin.
"I need you," Shang growls in her ear. He hisses as she strokes him, firm hand smooth and strong on his sensitive skin.
"And I need you," she teases back.
Fair is fair, he knows, and he pushes her down with a grin, his warm hands spreading her wide. She gasps, she always gasps, when his tongue first brushes through her crisp curls to the sleek, wet skin beneath. He settles on his elbows, drawing her out gently with lips and tiny bites, fingers stroking her until she is writhing.
"Now." Mulan's voice is ragged. He considers pushing her over, but this is better, so much better. With one more lick, Shang pulls away, lets his beautiful, naked wife totter to her knees.
He paid perhaps too much in the quietest corner of the market for this smoothly polished length of wood. As she pours oil over the end, Shang muses he may not have paid enough.
She says, "Turn." Her voice has gone firm. Shang turns his body, facing away and trembling in excitement.
"Please," he says. "Please."
Her fingers push against the ticklish flesh of his entrance, just as his brushed against hers. Slick oil covers him, and Shang breathes in as Mulan pushes the wooden phallus inside him.
Tears prick Shang's eyes: pain, tender and taut. Then her coated hand strokes him wetly and he shouts.
Her movements stop. "Say it."
Shang bites his lip. "Please," he says again.
"No, Shang." The voice behind him is fake gravelly. The phallus inside him is hard and motionless. "Beg me."
"Please, Ping," says Shang, and as soon as the words erupt, he is assaulted with pleasure, a hand on his cock and the sure thrusts into his ass. His words are a litany now: Ping, please, please, Ping.
The thrusts stop. He turns to see as the shadowy figure behind him repositions, and the other end of the long phallus disappears between legs Shang can barely see. A new rhythm sets up, rocking the toy between them, clumsy touches stroking him. He pushes the other hand away, taking over, and feels the hand move back, begin to rub and circle where the phallus meets his love's body.
It's not long, not now, until lightning flashes behind his eyes, and he shoots onto the blanket beneath them. "Please," he says one last time, and feels the spasms behind him, replete in orgasm.
They always exchange I love yous after sex, disengaging and kissing tiredly, and tonight is no exception. They curl into each other like puppies. Mulan loves him, and Shang loves Mulan. He's almost sure she doesn't mind that he also loves a man who doesn't exist.
***
Title: Timing
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairing: 9th Doctor/River
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: first time, last time, glasses, curl, against the wall
***
It isn't every student who can bend Luna University's stringent rules about time travel in order to finish a paper. Truth be told, River isn't technically on the list of students with permission. However, a strategic kiss here, and a misdirection there, and why look, that bit of tech on loan from the Time Agency just happens to land in her hand.
She always has been curious about the start of the rebellion on the third moon of Galliod. Sources say the miners had enough of the poor wages and terrible working conditions, but sources fail to explain why the same conditions over the past three thousand years hadn't led to a faster revolution. River has her own thesis, and she's ready to take notes.
She meets him in a shady eating-house in the worst part of the shantytown where the miners live. They're the only two people in the place who look completely human; it's her private joke that she knows she's not. He's severely handsome with his close-cropped hair and sharp features, not pretty like most of her lovers, something more dangerous. She's not her normally gorgeous self, either, with her curls carefully flattened and mischievous eyes hidden by thick glasses that help her peer through the weird gaseous layers of the moon's atmosphere. But he can't stop staring at her.
"I've heard about Time Agents," he warns her the first time they're alone, pointing to the borrowed computer on her wrist.
She's reckless tonight. "It's all true. We're exactly as bad as you think." Impersonating a Time Agent carries a prison sentence, but only if she gets caught.
She fucks him for the first time up against the wall of the rented room. Odd: he looks and sounds like a veteran of too many wars, but he makes love like a virgin. He lets her lead, and River is only too happy. She perfected her skills long ago, wearing another body and using poor stupid Jeff as a dildo when none of the other boys or girls would play. She works her new friend like an orgasm-dispensing machine, all tight control waiting for her to suck and stroke the right lever.
"Why are you here?" he asks her, as they lay exhausted on what's probably a bug-infested mattress. He told her mid-fuck that his name is John. Equally invested in anonymity, she told him hers is Jane.
He's a time traveller like she is, that much is clear. "I've come to observe the start of the miners' revolt. You?"
"I'm here to prevent it."
It turns out they're both incorrect. River shows the wrong amount of leg at the wrong time, and follows by showing the wrong amount of boob. John helps rescue a miner's child from a sink hole, and tells her mother that she deserves to grow up in a better world. Three days later, the revolt is in full swing, but, River notes with some amusement, it's not nearly as bloody as her books said.
"I have to go," John says, but he stays one more night, nuzzling her open as she's taught him, cold hands and cold mouth turning her belly to fire with every lick. He's in pain she can't touch, and every moment with her buries it for a while. She herself is on a great journey, and can spare him the surcease as she digs through stone histories for evidence of the good man she wants to believe her mother knows. The records says the Doctor came here. River laughs a little inside her head, coming apart under this stranger's mouth and fingers and cool cock for the last heady time. He'll be gone before she wakes. River needs to leave soon as well, and regrets not finding what she came for.
She wonders if she's too late to find him, but only when John leaves does she wonder if she's too early after all.
***
Title: Where We Go
Fandom: Star Wars
Characters/Pairing: Obi-Wan/Padmé Amidala
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: cloak, secrets, time, hidden, sand, taste
***
No one can know.
She is a respected diplomat, former Queen and now Senator of Naboo. He's a Jedi Knight, sworn to uphold the Republic, to use the Force in righteousness, and not to dally. If they are discovered, it will bring shame to both. If they are discovered by Anakin, who knows what he'll do. Padmé loves Anakin as much as she dares, knowing by now how dangerous he's become. She watches the darkness inside him, and she thinks, hopes, prays, that she will be enough to hold him from the precipice. Ben loves him just as much, and in the same worried fashion. They don't want to hurt him, and they don't want him hurting anyone else.
But this hidden pleasure the two of them have eked out, this is theirs. When he spreads out his cloak in an abandoned corridor, it serves them as a finer bed than her apartments, or even the bed she used as Queen. He tastes her skin, beard prickling the soft flesh of her breasts, of her navel, of her pubis, and it's all Padmé can do to bite back her joy. This man knows her, would love her entirely and without reservation had they both not greater duties. His lips suckle at her tender pink nub, the place she presses nightly, awake and wanting after Anakin has taken his pleasure and rolled over to sleep. She dares not call her lover by his given name, nor by his true name, not where someone can hear. Instead she writes the words of her love against his cheeks, into his scalp, and draws his face to her, rolling atop him and taking him inside her effortlessly.
Ben is more reckless than she, moaning a prayerful "Amidala," into the skin of her neck. She rides him fiercely, quickly, pushing against him for her own enjoyment and knowing he is drinking her down in kisses, thrusting hard. She burns through her climax, and heads straight for another without pausing.
With a startled moan, he withdraws, spilling to the thirsty fabric of his cloak rather than within her. Padmé bites back her unhappiness, understanding his reasons. She dreams of days spent with this man, together under a hot sun instead of furtive couplings in shadows, but it's as forbidden as her marriage, and far more irresponsible to imagine.
She smooths the hair from his face, doesn't tell him she loves him.
Someday.
***
Title: Your People Will Be My People
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters/Pairing: Jenny Flint/Madame Vastra, Strax
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: tongue, fingering, wedding
***
The thing about marriages, Jenny learned, was that it had never occurred to Her Majesty or anyone else to say which ones weren't couth. When a diplomat arrived in London with his three wives, eyebrows were raised certainly. Filthy and rude jokes abounded. But not a soul claimed he wasn't wed to all three. Why, hadn't the Biblical patriarchs had more than one wife, Isaac and Jacob and David and Solomon?
Jenny wasn't one much for the Bible any more, not after the cruel lessons she'd picked up in the orphanage, the beatings she'd been given in God's name. But she was passing fond of the story of Ruth and Naomi.
Her lady, her love, spoke her vows in the tongue of her own people: you are mine and I am yours and we are for and of each other. Jenny found a tattered old leatherbound book and gave the pledge she'd already made: where you go I will go and where you stay I will stay. Strax made a poor preacher and a poorer judge, but he was no fool, and he mumbled something appropriately pious to someone's god and only made two or three attempts to start a war.
It didn't matter. They were wed, and no man could come between them.
Vastra was lovely, green and undulant under Jenny's tender touch. Jenny served her first, loving her the greater (Vastra said it was the reverse, that she loved Jenny more). Her wife - her wife! - tasted as delightfully smoky as she did yesterday, but Jenny lingered because she could, tickling at the tenderest scales, running eager fingers under crests until Vastra swore and moaned and called Jenny a terrible tease. It was always this way, her impatient mistress wanting the full pleasure of Jenny's tongue, and Jenny rude and playful in her denials.
The payback was just as sweet, Vastra's truly perfect tongue crawling the length of Jenny's body, her strong, talented fingers driving home into Jenny's eager cunt as her nose teased Jenny's equally eager clit. Vastra fucked dirty, and hard, and Jenny quaked with every stroke, shouted again and again at the unrelenting onslaught of single-minded pleasuring.
They went until they were too tired to move, too tired to speak, loving each other in turn, and collapsing limply to the bed they'd shared these several years like two spent newlyweds. Jenny couldn't imagine being happier.
"Madame," she said, in the teasing tone she liked to take, the one that made Vastra smile like a naughty green nun. "What'd'you say tomorrow we get married again?"
"What a perfect plan," Vastra agreed, and kissed her.
***
Title: Novelty
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: games, domesticity, avant garde
***
Sometimes, the domesticity scares him.
They still fight aliens, naturally, and they still work with the non-lethal ones. Gunplay isn't a kind of sex game (usually) nearly so much as it saves their necks. The Earth and Cardiff are in danger more often than a hero's love interest in a badly-written film, seemingly back in harm's way after barely a moment's time for some quick kissing. It's all very exciting. Honestly. Quite.
But when he and Jack are home, things are frankly so normal to be a bit terrifying. He's learned to cook under Jack's patient if inconsistent teaching, though Jack still makes the majority of the meals they eat here. Jack leaves him the washing-up too often, but does show up to dry, using the tea towel to drag Ianto in for kisses when the crockery isn't endangered. Their neighbours genially tolerate the odd hours and invite them over for dinners and parties they can't accept. Even the housework is mundane, the dusting and hoovering traded off as neatly as you please.
"What?" Jack asks, after an early night (and no bad thing, bloody Rift back in full fury after that lull Ianto had let himself believe was the new status quo, their first night home before eight in a week, ugh). He's folding underclothes, and looks frankly ridiculous with socks spread around him in neat piles on the bed.
Ianto frowns. "Do you see this?" He waves his arm, taking in the neat bedroom, the whole flat really. "What are we doing?"
"Folding," Jack says, like Ianto's an idiot.
"This is surreal," Ianto shoots back. "You're Captain Jack 'I've Shagged Half the Galaxy and the Other Half Are Next' Harkness. Why are you folding my socks?"
He hears the other question curl up in his voice, and he doesn't like it. He sits down heavily on the bed, away from Jack.
"We don't have to fold the socks."
"Jack."
Jack breathes. "What's the sexiest thing we've ever done?"
"What?"
"Pick."
Ianto thinks back, remembering nights spent spread-eagled in this bed, nights spent tying Jack meticulously to his desk and buggering him hard, nights spent drawing his name in alien languages over Jack's skin with chocolate paints and eating him clean again. "I can't pick." What would Jack choose, given every dalliance they'd every undertaken? Jack likes the feel of Ianto's fingers stretching him open, and Ianto knows Jack loves nothing more than the blunt head of a cock pushing into him, with his cries muffled by a thick rubber gag and his body convulsing with effort. Would he pick that?
"I can," Jack says with simple certainty. "The sexiest thing we ever did was in the living room. You turned on a programme you didn't want to watch, and you fell asleep with your head on my shoulder."
"But that's … " He struggles for words.
"Amazing," replies Jack. "It was amazing." And it occurs to Ianto that this is just like the office: something incredibly mundane is out of Jack's experience. "I'm more than happy to drive my tongue into your mouth then deep into your arse, to strip you in the back of the SUV and suck you down like a lolly. That's fun. But this? Folding socks and washing the plates? That's special. That's new." He grins. Jack is nothing if not a sucker for novelty.
"Fair enough," Ianto says, mind ticking over the images Jack has conjured. "And I understand. But perhaps we could … " He raises his eyebrows suggestively. " … up the game now and then?"
Jack's grin widens. He grabs three socks, tying two together to make a longer cord, and deliberately brings the third up to Ianto's mouth. After a moment, he opens and lets Jack push just enough inside. Then Jack removes Ianto's shirt and ties his wrists together.
By morning, the socks are stretched out beyond any possible wear, but Ianto is too tired and happy, and just sore enough in the right places, to give a damn.
***
Title: Frost
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairings: Ianto Jones/Toshiko Sato, past Tosh/Owen, past Tosh/Mary
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: snow, green
AN: Prequel to What to Expect
***
Their first time is less than a month after Owen's death. It's just the two of them left, cold and terrified and out of ammunition, hiding in the outskirts of Copenhagen. Gwen left them a week ago, striking out on her own to get back to Wales and search for her fiancé amongst the ruins. She took one of the guns and left a note not to follow. Tosh doesn't know if it's because she wanted to keep them safe, or if Gwen was acknowledging she had the best chance of survival and success without two hangers-on.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, except the ever-present snow, driving them into shared blankets. It's hardly a leap after that, to take more comfort from the warm body beside her. Ianto's body is nothing like Tosh expected, too furry for her tastes and broad where his suits had implied slimness. He smells bad, they both do, and her nose is going to give up soon without a prayer of a bath. He hasn't seen the good side of a razor since they left for the Himalayas.
But his hands are gentle, and his mouth is kind. Tosh accepts the sweet, chilly kisses, not asking who's behind his closed eyes. Her own fantasies are firmly in place. It's an easy understanding. Ianto's fingers move deftly between her legs, rubbing circles with his thumb. Her body is changing: too lean from the thin rations, new blood thickening her sensitive labia as her hormones shift. The baby is only the size of a nut, and already taking over her life. This should be her baby's father deliberately sliding two wet fingers into Tosh, spreading and teasing, not the only friend she has left.
They're too chilly to strip, even in the cocoon of blankets. She hooks her thumbs on the fastener of his jeans, working button and zip as he pushes her knickers further out of his way. It's a hot, fast coupling then, almost too rough. She's wet enough, and Ianto's breathing hard into her neck, the only noise he makes. He's nothing like Owen, nothing like Mary, nothing like anyone but who he is. She squeezes her own eyes shut, casting for a better moment to encourage her own peak.
She remembers how it was with Owen, finally perfect after so long wanting, how he'd burned into her.
She remembers Mary's devilish face peeking up over the flat, smooth horizon of Toshiko's own belly, before she ducked down to offer more pleasure.
She remembers that one time with Jack, when she was too new to know he made passes at everyone.
She remembers spring, full of green grass and life, not locked away here in the cold darkness, waiting for their chance to sprint to the next refugee camp.
His orgasm builds fast, and in a moment, he's jerking into her, lost in whatever memory he's wearing in her place. Tosh wriggles, aiming for just a little more friction, a little better angle. She's close, not close enough, and he's softening too fast as he withdraws.
Tosh blinks back cold tears, and Ianto pushes a kiss into her mouth, as his hand replaces his cock, sure and quick. His thumb goes back to her clit whilst his smallest finger prods her arsehole. The sudden intrusion shocks her, and she fights into the kiss, coming unexpectedly on his fingers, surging at his touch. When she blinks and breathes, he's got a self-satisfied expression on his face, which is a welcome change from the sorrow they've both worn these last long months.
"Better?"
"Warm now," she agrees, happy to note the tingles all over her body. He reaches for her properly, pulling her close, both of them still clothed except between hip and knee. The blankets smell even worse. Tosh decides not to care.
In the morning, they strike out for the city. In the evening, he robs a jewellery store and brings her back a matched set of rings. It's hardly romantic, merely a practicality for a woman who's soon to show and the man she's travelling with. But she holds his hand as they walk, avoiding the main roads with the soldiers and the floating balls of giggling murderers, and she looks for signs of spring.
***
Title: Perchance
Fandom: Star Trek:TNG
Characters/Pairing: Beverly Crusher/Jean-Luc Picard
Rating: Adults only
Prompts: voice, implants, dream, H/C
Warning: implied non-con
***
He still dreams about the implant, jutting out uncomfortably in the back of his head, dreams about hearing Beverly's thoughts inside his own. There is no one he's been so close to, so intimate with, as when their minds touched, cracking apart with secrets like chocolate eggs. They both dreamed that night, dreamed of limbs entwining sinuously by the fire, of mouths meeting while voices continued their murmurs pledging emotions they couldn't speak. He relives the dreams of her hands on him, knowing because he knows how best to stroke and lave and love him.
He still dreams about the other implants, crawling into his flesh like burrowing insects, dreams about hearing the thoughts of the Collective inside his head. The part of him that remained unique had never been so frightened, so bruised, so violated, as he'd fought not to crack apart. He dreams of the Borg, of their hands seizing him like machines, of being held down as his flesh was torn and his humanity stripped from him like gobbets of meat from a bone. He relives those long hours, as the Collective ate him from inside, knowing how to hurt him because it was him.
"Wake up, Jean-Luc," says a voice from far away, and he can't, he's held down and can't breathe, and warm lips cover his, yielding life with a gasp.
Beverly leans over him, hair tousled and face drawn into worry. He's come to know every single line on her mouth and forehead, and recognizes how many have been etched by him. He draws his thumb to trace one now, a short wrinkle by the left side of her lips. Beverly turns her head to kiss the thumb.
"Same dream?" she asks, without a question.
"Always."
She kisses him, offering her friendship and listening ear as well as her love. He takes both, greedy for the gift. She's ready for him, joining her body to his without preamble. Foreplay is for later, for when they make love properly, delighting in the too-long denied joy of one another. Now is for simple connection, him sliding home inside her like a prayer, like a dream that has no end.