Fic: Memory Lapse (1/1)
Title: Memory Lapse
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Martha
Word Count: 487
Summary:‘You said that you loved him,’ he whispers, eyes sharp, voice strained; ‘Show me.’ For nschick, who requested “Ten/Martha Jones” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through 3.09 - The Family of Blood.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For nschick: Oh, doll - you have no idea how much I loved writing my beloved Martha with her Ten - she so got shafted as a companion, and it's always made me sad. Hope you like!
Memory Lapse
‘You said that you loved him,’ he whispers, eyes sharp, voice strained; ‘Show me.’
And she’d looked at him, fear in her eyes; but he’d needed to know. He needed to know.
‘Convince me,’ he murmurs, catching her palm against his own, pressing his lips against her ear, watching as she shivers, starts to give in. ‘Prove to me that he’s loved better as The Doctor than he’s loved as just John Smith.’
And show him, she did; showed him in every way he’d ever dreamed, took him into her and gave her very essence to his whim, his will as she moved, fingertips against his shoulder blades, driving him into her, through her, close enough to know without thinking, without looking, without doubt.
He’s never been more loved than this.
And she’s warm, by the stars, she’s warm, and she tastes like the sun on his tongue; intoxicating not like banana daiquiris, but more like the thrum of time itself at the back of his mind, the pulse of his blood - something he’ll always remember, never be able to give up. The way she clenches, shudders around his length is beautiful, though not so much as the look on her face; the way her eyes fly open, black holes, the cosmos spinning in their depths - the way her lips part, and silent, sacred life breaks free with a gasp, a sigh. The way her neck stretches, arches back to match her spine so that his lips can fit at the space between her collarbones, so that his hands can lavish that stretch of perfect mocha skin with the love, the devotion it deserves; the way her heart pounds to breaking against the space between her breasts, against his cheeks as he rests there, breathes her in hard, releases into her like a man who knows what he wants, who he needs - what his soul was born to love.
It wasn’t that falling in love had never occurred to him; it was that falling in love was something he’d taken care of already - he just hadn’t known it yet.
“I,” he whispers, cannot meet her eyes as he shrugs on his overcoat, too big - just right; “I have to leave. To... finish this.”
He pauses just outside the door, reaches into his pocket, fingers the watch at its hinges, where it lies, open - open, already, against the fathomless seams; waits for his hearts to settle, to calm before he ventures forth to end the charade, once and for all.
The truth, it seems, had been laid bare before his eyes the whole time. And he, the fool - he’d just been too blind to see.
Some things, he thinks, require human eyes.
Rating: R
Pairing: Ten/Martha
Word Count: 487
Summary:‘You said that you loved him,’ he whispers, eyes sharp, voice strained; ‘Show me.’ For nschick, who requested “Ten/Martha Jones” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through 3.09 - The Family of Blood.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For nschick: Oh, doll - you have no idea how much I loved writing my beloved Martha with her Ten - she so got shafted as a companion, and it's always made me sad. Hope you like!
Memory Lapse
‘You said that you loved him,’ he whispers, eyes sharp, voice strained; ‘Show me.’
And she’d looked at him, fear in her eyes; but he’d needed to know. He needed to know.
‘Convince me,’ he murmurs, catching her palm against his own, pressing his lips against her ear, watching as she shivers, starts to give in. ‘Prove to me that he’s loved better as The Doctor than he’s loved as just John Smith.’
And show him, she did; showed him in every way he’d ever dreamed, took him into her and gave her very essence to his whim, his will as she moved, fingertips against his shoulder blades, driving him into her, through her, close enough to know without thinking, without looking, without doubt.
He’s never been more loved than this.
And she’s warm, by the stars, she’s warm, and she tastes like the sun on his tongue; intoxicating not like banana daiquiris, but more like the thrum of time itself at the back of his mind, the pulse of his blood - something he’ll always remember, never be able to give up. The way she clenches, shudders around his length is beautiful, though not so much as the look on her face; the way her eyes fly open, black holes, the cosmos spinning in their depths - the way her lips part, and silent, sacred life breaks free with a gasp, a sigh. The way her neck stretches, arches back to match her spine so that his lips can fit at the space between her collarbones, so that his hands can lavish that stretch of perfect mocha skin with the love, the devotion it deserves; the way her heart pounds to breaking against the space between her breasts, against his cheeks as he rests there, breathes her in hard, releases into her like a man who knows what he wants, who he needs - what his soul was born to love.
It wasn’t that falling in love had never occurred to him; it was that falling in love was something he’d taken care of already - he just hadn’t known it yet.
“I,” he whispers, cannot meet her eyes as he shrugs on his overcoat, too big - just right; “I have to leave. To... finish this.”
He pauses just outside the door, reaches into his pocket, fingers the watch at its hinges, where it lies, open - open, already, against the fathomless seams; waits for his hearts to settle, to calm before he ventures forth to end the charade, once and for all.
The truth, it seems, had been laid bare before his eyes the whole time. And he, the fool - he’d just been too blind to see.
Some things, he thinks, require human eyes.