He laughs. She smiles.
Title: He laughs. She smiles.
Genre: pr0n, smidgen of angst
Rating: M
Word Count: 651
Pairing: Romana/Mr. Saxon (aka the CANNOT BE TOLD FOR SPOILER-PHOBES)
Summary: "It's wrong, she shouldn't be doing this."
It's wrong, she shouldn't be doing this. She should be yelling with righteous anger instead of pleasure and wants. His hands shouldn't be gripping her hips so tightly that they'll leave bruises, but it feels so good. She should be pressing her heel to the back of another, she should be clutching another to her breast. It isn't though. It's his mouth that sucks and nips at her breast as his hips thrust, bumping into hers as they're carefully established rhythm becomes messy with increasing pleasure. She's surprised really that they're both so open about this. That their bodies are being allowed to move so uncontrolled. She screams, a name remembered by three alone. She screams the name of their creator, the name that gives them all a pride which no other race could suppose to surpass. The pride that makes sure he gives a few final pushes to prove he can. The pride that keeps her mental blocks in check. There are a few seconds of their hearts being brought under control and the occasional breath. Her hearts return to their standard imitation of a Gallifreyan waltz (good for calming, not so good for running).
"I never knew you could move your hips quite like that, Madame President." He breaks the silence.
"Yes well I never knew you could mouth for anything other than lying, betraying, and killing." She says with a shove. He stays put, finally raising his head from her shoulder, he looks her in the eye.
"Well we at least have one thing in common then." He laughs, and if she was a lesser being it might have sent her blood cold. He turns away from her then. They dress in silence.
"What are you going to do now?" He asks, there is a suspicious lack of fear in his demeanour that gives her a small ego boost.
For several moments she stands, debating. "Leave you to him." She finally says.
"Ah, I'm not quite sure how I feel about that." He says turning around to face her.
"Well I don't really care how you feel about it, Mr. Saxon." She adds the fake name for emphasis. She grabs her favourite red coat from the back of his favourite leather chair.
He smiles as he walks to her. "I was looking forward to a confrontation," and he makes the word sound so lewd, "with you."
"While I'm flattered, Master," and she drips the word in condescension to pay him back, "as I said earlier: Your. Feelings. Don't. Matter." She drops each word with the certainty that she used to pronounce orders to her guards. "Besides," she says turning away, "This always was his planet. And," she says after a short pause, "it will be very amusing to view your little squabble. Him all righteous anger, oh look at me aren't I lovely and Rassilon-like." He laughs, and she knows she should feel terribly, but her lips pull up anyway, and she's angry at him. "And you, cowardly, defeated and, running with your TARDIS barely functioning."
"He won't beat me." He says, his voice grave.
"Just like he wouldn't beat you before?"
"He had help those times."
"And he won't now?" She says. Romana turns to him and her eyebrow arches, as she sticks her hands in her pockets.
"Well, maybe a human like the last time, but not a whole bloody troop or army of them."
She smiles. "Even alone he'd beat you. I don't know why or how, but he will." There is a purposeful silence and she cocks her head walking out of the office.
"Now you can say you had sex in Ten Downing Street, with the Prime Minister." He says smiling.
"Why brag about Ten Downing Street when I can brag about having sex in ceremonial robes, in the Panopticon, and you can never say you had sex with the President of Gallifrey."
He laughs.
She smiles.
The door shuts.
Genre: pr0n, smidgen of angst
Rating: M
Word Count: 651
Pairing: Romana/Mr. Saxon (aka the CANNOT BE TOLD FOR SPOILER-PHOBES)
Summary: "It's wrong, she shouldn't be doing this."
It's wrong, she shouldn't be doing this. She should be yelling with righteous anger instead of pleasure and wants. His hands shouldn't be gripping her hips so tightly that they'll leave bruises, but it feels so good. She should be pressing her heel to the back of another, she should be clutching another to her breast. It isn't though. It's his mouth that sucks and nips at her breast as his hips thrust, bumping into hers as they're carefully established rhythm becomes messy with increasing pleasure. She's surprised really that they're both so open about this. That their bodies are being allowed to move so uncontrolled. She screams, a name remembered by three alone. She screams the name of their creator, the name that gives them all a pride which no other race could suppose to surpass. The pride that makes sure he gives a few final pushes to prove he can. The pride that keeps her mental blocks in check. There are a few seconds of their hearts being brought under control and the occasional breath. Her hearts return to their standard imitation of a Gallifreyan waltz (good for calming, not so good for running).
"I never knew you could move your hips quite like that, Madame President." He breaks the silence.
"Yes well I never knew you could mouth for anything other than lying, betraying, and killing." She says with a shove. He stays put, finally raising his head from her shoulder, he looks her in the eye.
"Well we at least have one thing in common then." He laughs, and if she was a lesser being it might have sent her blood cold. He turns away from her then. They dress in silence.
"What are you going to do now?" He asks, there is a suspicious lack of fear in his demeanour that gives her a small ego boost.
For several moments she stands, debating. "Leave you to him." She finally says.
"Ah, I'm not quite sure how I feel about that." He says turning around to face her.
"Well I don't really care how you feel about it, Mr. Saxon." She adds the fake name for emphasis. She grabs her favourite red coat from the back of his favourite leather chair.
He smiles as he walks to her. "I was looking forward to a confrontation," and he makes the word sound so lewd, "with you."
"While I'm flattered, Master," and she drips the word in condescension to pay him back, "as I said earlier: Your. Feelings. Don't. Matter." She drops each word with the certainty that she used to pronounce orders to her guards. "Besides," she says turning away, "This always was his planet. And," she says after a short pause, "it will be very amusing to view your little squabble. Him all righteous anger, oh look at me aren't I lovely and Rassilon-like." He laughs, and she knows she should feel terribly, but her lips pull up anyway, and she's angry at him. "And you, cowardly, defeated and, running with your TARDIS barely functioning."
"He won't beat me." He says, his voice grave.
"Just like he wouldn't beat you before?"
"He had help those times."
"And he won't now?" She says. Romana turns to him and her eyebrow arches, as she sticks her hands in her pockets.
"Well, maybe a human like the last time, but not a whole bloody troop or army of them."
She smiles. "Even alone he'd beat you. I don't know why or how, but he will." There is a purposeful silence and she cocks her head walking out of the office.
"Now you can say you had sex in Ten Downing Street, with the Prime Minister." He says smiling.
"Why brag about Ten Downing Street when I can brag about having sex in ceremonial robes, in the Panopticon, and you can never say you had sex with the President of Gallifrey."
He laughs.
She smiles.
The door shuts.