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emerald_embersTitle: A Well Deserved Rest
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Jackson/Tenth Doctor
Rating: R
Word Count: 337
Summary: A little coda for the episode "The Next Doctor", because the Doctor damn well deserved some love and attention!
Author's Notes: This fic currently holds my record for "fastest story written since watching an episode/finishing a movie or game", standing at two hours and 35 minutes!
"You'll regret this in the morning," warns the Doctor, eyes twinkling but slightly red from the very fine brandy.
"In the morning I will have a traumatised son, a deceased wife, and all the damned social mores and graces of this city to deal with. That, I will regret. This? I do not honestly believe so."
"An upstanding man like yourself -"
"Will not seem so upstanding when seeking employment to support his family after public outbursts and finding himself a single parent." Jackson climbs to his feet, a not insignificant task given his height, and smiles, extending his hand. "It has been a day for casting aside constraints, and I intend to finish the night in such a manner. Dance with me."
Be they companions or acquaintances, the Doctor has never been able to turn down someone offering him a dance.
A waltz, easy and traditional, and Rosita and the boy peek in once before heading off to bed; they have little to say beyond 'goodnight', the day's events as draining on them as anyone else.
He should be getting back to the Tardis.
Again, Jackson persuades him to stay.
The brandy helps.
It's easier than he'd expected; Jackson knows him without having lived alongside him. There's no weight; no pressure; and it's the satisfaction of a need he'd felt the moment Jackson first cupped his cheek unthinking.
It's easy to not feel desperate or burdened and it's that same lightness that has him wrapping his legs around Jackson's waist and curling his toes, sobbing gasps while Jackson is solid-solid-solid, wording concerns that sound like endearments. "God, you're skinny."
He arches and comes, not hard, but long, spurting a great white mess over Jackson's stomach and clenching tight when he feels the other man finish in turn.
"You deserve more credit than you'll ever receive," Jackson says afterwards, settling an arm around his waist and pressing up against him despite the slick of sweat and come.
He tells himself he'll leave in the morning.
The End
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Jackson/Tenth Doctor
Rating: R
Word Count: 337
Summary: A little coda for the episode "The Next Doctor", because the Doctor damn well deserved some love and attention!
Author's Notes: This fic currently holds my record for "fastest story written since watching an episode/finishing a movie or game", standing at two hours and 35 minutes!
"You'll regret this in the morning," warns the Doctor, eyes twinkling but slightly red from the very fine brandy.
"In the morning I will have a traumatised son, a deceased wife, and all the damned social mores and graces of this city to deal with. That, I will regret. This? I do not honestly believe so."
"An upstanding man like yourself -"
"Will not seem so upstanding when seeking employment to support his family after public outbursts and finding himself a single parent." Jackson climbs to his feet, a not insignificant task given his height, and smiles, extending his hand. "It has been a day for casting aside constraints, and I intend to finish the night in such a manner. Dance with me."
Be they companions or acquaintances, the Doctor has never been able to turn down someone offering him a dance.
A waltz, easy and traditional, and Rosita and the boy peek in once before heading off to bed; they have little to say beyond 'goodnight', the day's events as draining on them as anyone else.
He should be getting back to the Tardis.
Again, Jackson persuades him to stay.
The brandy helps.
It's easier than he'd expected; Jackson knows him without having lived alongside him. There's no weight; no pressure; and it's the satisfaction of a need he'd felt the moment Jackson first cupped his cheek unthinking.
It's easy to not feel desperate or burdened and it's that same lightness that has him wrapping his legs around Jackson's waist and curling his toes, sobbing gasps while Jackson is solid-solid-solid, wording concerns that sound like endearments. "God, you're skinny."
He arches and comes, not hard, but long, spurting a great white mess over Jackson's stomach and clenching tight when he feels the other man finish in turn.
"You deserve more credit than you'll ever receive," Jackson says afterwards, settling an arm around his waist and pressing up against him despite the slick of sweat and come.
He tells himself he'll leave in the morning.
The End
