![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
order_of_chaosTitle: Handporn III - Doctor's POV
Author:![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
order_of_chaos
Characters/Pairing: Tenth Doctor, implied Jack/Hand
Rating: R
Wordcount: 200
AN: Forcyberamanda, who said "What if the Doctor could sense or feel what was happening to his hand?"
Author:
order_of_chaosCharacters/Pairing: Tenth Doctor, implied Jack/Hand
Rating: R
Wordcount: 200
AN: For
cyberamanda, who said "What if the Doctor could sense or feel what was happening to his hand?" Handporn III
He can feel it. Hot, wet tongue circling the palm of his hand; firm, wet suction as each of his fingers are engulfed in turn – lavished with attention and released with a light, arousing nip of teeth. Slow, patient teasing that goes on for hours, dizzying, distracting. He wants to touch, wants desperately to pull his hand away and patch together some semblance of his usual composure – something that doesn’t involve himself with his eyes closed, breath caught on a moan that he refuses to let out – but it’s not his hand to control anymore, and he can’t. He can only accept the gift of sensation as someone – familiar stranger – lets him feel. He likes that more than he thinks he should.
Smooth skin under his hand now – new and bright to fingertips that have barely felt skin before – and he’s fascinated. Breathless.
Fingerpads linger in the dip of a bellybutton. Slide down. Then there’s the velvet-hard heat of a cock pulsing under his touch; warm, wet stickiness and that tongue again, lapping him clean.
He feels everything. Long after the touch stops on his missing hand, he can still feel it – echoes and aftershocks, and the desire for more.
He can feel it. Hot, wet tongue circling the palm of his hand; firm, wet suction as each of his fingers are engulfed in turn – lavished with attention and released with a light, arousing nip of teeth. Slow, patient teasing that goes on for hours, dizzying, distracting. He wants to touch, wants desperately to pull his hand away and patch together some semblance of his usual composure – something that doesn’t involve himself with his eyes closed, breath caught on a moan that he refuses to let out – but it’s not his hand to control anymore, and he can’t. He can only accept the gift of sensation as someone – familiar stranger – lets him feel. He likes that more than he thinks he should.
Smooth skin under his hand now – new and bright to fingertips that have barely felt skin before – and he’s fascinated. Breathless.
Fingerpads linger in the dip of a bellybutton. Slide down. Then there’s the velvet-hard heat of a cock pulsing under his touch; warm, wet stickiness and that tongue again, lapping him clean.
He feels everything. Long after the touch stops on his missing hand, he can still feel it – echoes and aftershocks, and the desire for more.