An anonymous Tumblr user requested a John Porter fanfic. Well, it just so happened that I've had a Porter story tumbling around in my head for months now, but, because I have two other stories in progress, it remains unwritten. So, I offered Anon a one-shot instead. This is that one-shot, as well as a snippet from my Porter story, with an as-yet-unnamed OFC.

Enjoy! ;)

You had Jesus on your breath, and I caught him on mine, sweating our confessions, the undone and the divine. "Bedroom Hymns" Florence + the Machine

Morocco, 2011

The noonday sun beats down mercilessly upon the tent, ensuring that its occupants receive only a modicum of relief. The fan in the corner is set to high, but, even so, its range is limited.

Porter watches as a bead of sweat slides down her neck. She is leaning back, with her arms stretched out behind her, shapely legs in their cut-offs bent at the knee, her long, brown hair secured in a braid over her shoulder. Another drop of sweat catches his attention, this time, between her breasts.

He swallows his temptation and repositions himself, his shirt clinging unpleasantly to his damp skin. The rustle of fabric prompts her to open her eyes.

"You look uncomfortable," she remarks and observes him closely. For an instant, her gaze falls to his groin, which has his throat bobbing in a second, hard swallow. "Come here, John. It's almost bearable near the fan."

He obeys and is rewarded with a small smile. She tips her head back again, allowing the cool air to flow over her lithe figure, and he wills himself not to stare. But, when she shifts, her bare thigh brushes his, and then her bare shoulder. His skin tingles at the contact even through his clothes.

"Body heat is normally shared in cold climates," Porters says, in an effort to take his mind off his arousal, "not in blisteringly hot ones, like this."

Glancing at their touching knees, she gives him a half-smile that would have been innocent, if not for the rapid dilation of her pupils.

"Sorry, my mistake," she apologizes and moves her leg away from his. Their shoulders, however, remain touching. "The worst of the heat should dissipate in a couple hours, and then we can get out of this cramped tent."

"It'll still be hot."

"Yes, it will be," she affirms, with a laugh. "You really hate the heat, don't you? Born and raised Englishman, huh?"

Porter smirks. "A northern Englishman, to boot."

"My goodness, then you're really out of your element here. What, I wonder, could we do to make you more comfortable?" she muses aloud. Pinching his shirt sleeve between her thumb and index finger, she asks, "Isn't this sticking to you? Mine sure is."

Porter watches her. As her gaze eventually meets his, a satisfied grin spreads across her lips. His eyes have darkened, no longer their pale blue, betraying his growing desire for her. He realizes that she'd been teasing him intentionally, and now they would reap the fruits of her labors.

"I know an excellent solution to these pesky, sticking shirts," he says, his baritone voice filled with lust and promise.

She inches closer to him, her brow arched in amusement. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"This," he says and tugs the hem of her shirt upwards.

She grins, allowing him to pull the garment over her head, so that she is left in only denim shorts and a bra. His shirt quickly follows, and, when her deft fingers dance over his naked torso, he surges forward to kiss her. He licks along her bottom lip, and she opens up to him beautifully, curling her tongue around his. Porter's head spins from the heat, but also from the taste of her, all sweet and tart from the pomegranate she'd eaten, with just a hint of peppermint from their Moroccan tea.

While they kiss, he gently eases her down onto the bedroll, covering her body with his. It's hotter than ever in the tent, but that warmth is nothing compared to the fire burning in his belly, snaking its tendrils lower and lower, until his trousers feel just a little bit too tight. To distract himself from his growing discomfort, he breaks away from her lips, only to trail kisses down her neck. He reaches the hollow of her throat, where a bead of sweat has settled, licks the warm, sun-touched skin, and is rewarded with a gasp. He continues to descend, pressing lips and tongue to her chest, pulling glorious reactions from her as he lavishes attention upon her breasts. Her fingers comb through his short hair, and he grins against her belly. She feels it, because she looks down at him, a question in her eyes. Porter merely grins wider, a little devilishly, and resumes his path down her body.

When he reaches the waistband of her denim cutoffs, he traces his index finger along the skin above it, watching as goosebumps erupt. And then he is pulling down the shorts and nipping lightly at the jut of her hipbone. She startles at the first touch of teeth but parts her legs so that he can settle between them. Porter rests on his elbows and, with a wicked smirk, pulls down her knickers, too, wasting no time in exploring this new area of flesh bared to him. Her scent mixes with the heat in a heady combination that drives him nearly wild with lust, but he is determined to show her pleasure before taking his own. John Porter is a gentleman, after all, if a roguish one.

He's rewarded for his selflessness with a breathy moan as he closes his mouth around her core and proceeds to demonstrate his considerable oral talents. He licks and sucks and strokes, never keeping the rhythm steady enough to bring her to orgasm. She's panting, her hips are bucking of their own accord, her eyes are shut. He hums, pleased, and she moans at the vibration.

But enough teasing; he longs to see her come undone. Porter withdraws his finger, only to add another, and sucks in earnest at her clit, as he simultaneously strokes the rough patch of skin on the roof of her vagina. His free hand reaches up to massage first one breast, then the other. She trembles and clenches. It won't be long now, Porter knows, and, within a minute, she is falling over the edge, her back arched, her delicious moan resounding inside the tent. He continues to work her, gentling as her tremors fade, until she sags onto the bedroll with a sated sigh.

His cock throbs indignantly at being ignored. Now that they have a moment of calm, he rests his forehead against her inner thigh and grinds his neglected erection against the bedroll. But he's interrupted; her hands are on his shoulders, pushing him onto his back. Smiling down at him, she straddles his hips and kisses him, her tongue darting out to taste herself on him. She breaks away quickly, however, in favor of laving attention upon the rest of his body, her soft lips and careful teeth inching ever lower. She sucks a light mark into his hip, as she unbuckles his belt and pulls off first his trousers, then his underwear.

Propped up on his elbows, Porter watches her grip his cock and lick a stripe from base to tip, catching the dribbling, translucent fluid on her tongue. She weaves that clever tongue around the head, prodding at the frenulum, to elicit a sharp intake of breath. And when she closes her lips around him-Christ, those lips are soft-, he can't stop himself from bucking his hips, just slightly, into that warm, wet mouth. She lets him, and even smiles, before taking him deeper, until he feels the tip of his cock touch the back of her throat. He groans, his fingers tangling in her undone braid, and it's all he can do not to thrust as she demonstrates her own considerable oral talents. But her hands are not idle either. One remains firmly encircled around the base of his cock, while the other alternates between rolling his balls and kneading his thigh. He is hurtling towards orgasm, is only seconds away, when he tugs on her hair to indicate that she should stop.

She obeys. As soon as their gazes meet, Porter flips them over and enters her, wrenching identical gasps from them both. He pauses for a heartbeat, then pulls out and slides back in, all the way to the hilt, relishing how her head tips back and her mouth opens on a silent moan. Gripping her thighs, he begins to thrust in earnest. He abandons finesse in favor of eliciting the most pleasure as possible, shifting her until she arches off the bedroll. It's the sign he is looking for, the proof he has found the spot inside her that can make her see stars. He focuses on that spot, thrusting harder and faster, and reaches a hand between their bodies to stroke her clit. In response, she clenches around him. He groans and releases her thigh so that he can be closer to her, the sweat-slicked skin of their bellies sliding together. Her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him even deeper, and he rests his forehead against her breast as his thrusts become increasingly more frantic.

But he's not the only one growing desperate. She bucks and clenches and moans beneath him, and Porter retains just enough control to ensure that the rhythm on her core remains steady. Seconds later, she tenses, her blunt nails digging into his shoulders, and quakes against him, her cries mingling with his grunts. With her walls clamping down on him, he manages two more thrusts, before he, too, is coming. She holds onto him throughout. When he opens his eyes again, she is gazing up at him, a small, sleepy smile gracing her lips.

Porter cannot resist kissing her. The woman, who had spent most of their time together flirting with him and teasing him, melts into the embrace with a barely audible sigh. He smirks and rolls off her, leaving a slick trail of their fulfilled desire on her thighs. But she does not seem to mind. Stretching out an arm in invitation, he buries his nose in her hair when she pillows her head upon his chest. She drapes one leg over his and presses chaste kisses onto his chest. This, he thinks, is the best solution to the desert heat.

As they drift to sleep amidst the hum of the fan, the Moroccan sun moves in the sky, finally granting a reprieve from its rays. But the tent's occupants are oblivious to it.