DW fic
Title: Dualism, an Organic Study
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Doctor/Master, Doctor/Martha
Summary: I remember this, how he’d groaned, and mocked me with his eyes.
I remember this, how he’d groaned, and mocked me with his eyes. Demanding more with the purse of his mouth. Licking him open for an hour, tasting myself all over his hole, where I’d fucked him and come only that morning, dripping sweat on each other, blind to one another’s stupid sex faces, because our eyes were so tightly squeezed shut.
Now, it’s Martha whimpering under my fingers, under my tongue. My guilt is overpowering; a raw pulse clawing at the back of my brain. She may know this is a one-time deal, a parting gift never to be repeated, but her gentle human brain, her fragile heart, won’t know the difference. It will wreck her all the same. Unfaithfulness now, even in my head, is the nastiest betrayal, the ultimate cruelty.
My eyes are closed, my cheek against her thigh. She’s tight around my fingers, and spasming against my tongue. Her hand is in my hair. I’m thinking of him at this very moment, how he’d strangled me for a second with the crush of his thighs, and then laughed when I gasped for air. His hair standing up straight from his head, blonde and reflecting the flashing red and blue of the TARDIS’ console. Legs draped half over the grating of the ramp, I on my knees, partly beneath it.
We weren’t together very long, that time. A few strange hours. Longer, others, when he’d taken me from that horrid conference room, let me roam around the Valiant with him, a child for a while, an old man again, my usual age; whatever suited his whim, day by day. Just that once, he’d let me into the TARDIS, back to see her and breathe her in and stroke my hands over her wounded flesh. And then over his flesh, and his over mine. The Toclafane never far away, waiting for the slightest hostility on my part, but an audience was something surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to.
I’d told Martha this was just for her; I didn’t need or want any gratification. I know she was disappointed, almost turned it down, but then I’d kissed her and she’d said yes with the hot limpness of her body. I don’t need anything, but suddenly I want it. I pull away from her, slowly and wetly. She lifts her head to look at me, gaze heavy and concerned and hurt from more than this slight, perceived rejection.
I push and tug at her until she’s up on her knees, bent over away from me. Her backside is high and rounded, so I run my hands across it. It’s too soft, really, but I can pretend. I remember lifting his legs up, over my shoulders, fumbling trousers down around my knees, pushing into him, hovering over him, breathing down on him.
Martha gasps and cries when I ease inside her. It’s unexpected on both our parts; I hadn’t anticipated this horrendous rush of remembered arousal. The curse of incredibly infrequent couplings is that every one brings forth intense memories of the last. Her vagina is so hot, and so sweetly clenching, I bite my lips stinging and sore. He should have been tighter, but the hours of licking and playing, false starts and teasing entrances, made him deliriously wet, deliciously open. Martha feels like him.
She comes quickly, much quicker than I’d anticipated, given a general knowledge of human female physiology. Anticipation, a fantasy long awaited, I suppose, overblown to mythic and earth shattering proportions. Does love make orgasms better?
I can’t say for certain. He’d slid his legs down, under my arms, and hooked his feet behind my back. One arm around my shoulders, teeth in my neck, he’d hissed, “Give it to me, Doctor. Harder.” Hand gripping my hair, making the mess even worse, rocking his hips, swearing low in his throat.
I don’t know what he thinks of me, how he feels for me. I know him, but the minutia of his crazed mental ramblings? Totally open to speculation. I know what I’d like to believe, and I know that love makes my orgasms better. Both then and now.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Doctor/Master, Doctor/Martha
Summary: I remember this, how he’d groaned, and mocked me with his eyes.
I remember this, how he’d groaned, and mocked me with his eyes. Demanding more with the purse of his mouth. Licking him open for an hour, tasting myself all over his hole, where I’d fucked him and come only that morning, dripping sweat on each other, blind to one another’s stupid sex faces, because our eyes were so tightly squeezed shut.
Now, it’s Martha whimpering under my fingers, under my tongue. My guilt is overpowering; a raw pulse clawing at the back of my brain. She may know this is a one-time deal, a parting gift never to be repeated, but her gentle human brain, her fragile heart, won’t know the difference. It will wreck her all the same. Unfaithfulness now, even in my head, is the nastiest betrayal, the ultimate cruelty.
My eyes are closed, my cheek against her thigh. She’s tight around my fingers, and spasming against my tongue. Her hand is in my hair. I’m thinking of him at this very moment, how he’d strangled me for a second with the crush of his thighs, and then laughed when I gasped for air. His hair standing up straight from his head, blonde and reflecting the flashing red and blue of the TARDIS’ console. Legs draped half over the grating of the ramp, I on my knees, partly beneath it.
We weren’t together very long, that time. A few strange hours. Longer, others, when he’d taken me from that horrid conference room, let me roam around the Valiant with him, a child for a while, an old man again, my usual age; whatever suited his whim, day by day. Just that once, he’d let me into the TARDIS, back to see her and breathe her in and stroke my hands over her wounded flesh. And then over his flesh, and his over mine. The Toclafane never far away, waiting for the slightest hostility on my part, but an audience was something surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to.
I’d told Martha this was just for her; I didn’t need or want any gratification. I know she was disappointed, almost turned it down, but then I’d kissed her and she’d said yes with the hot limpness of her body. I don’t need anything, but suddenly I want it. I pull away from her, slowly and wetly. She lifts her head to look at me, gaze heavy and concerned and hurt from more than this slight, perceived rejection.
I push and tug at her until she’s up on her knees, bent over away from me. Her backside is high and rounded, so I run my hands across it. It’s too soft, really, but I can pretend. I remember lifting his legs up, over my shoulders, fumbling trousers down around my knees, pushing into him, hovering over him, breathing down on him.
Martha gasps and cries when I ease inside her. It’s unexpected on both our parts; I hadn’t anticipated this horrendous rush of remembered arousal. The curse of incredibly infrequent couplings is that every one brings forth intense memories of the last. Her vagina is so hot, and so sweetly clenching, I bite my lips stinging and sore. He should have been tighter, but the hours of licking and playing, false starts and teasing entrances, made him deliriously wet, deliciously open. Martha feels like him.
She comes quickly, much quicker than I’d anticipated, given a general knowledge of human female physiology. Anticipation, a fantasy long awaited, I suppose, overblown to mythic and earth shattering proportions. Does love make orgasms better?
I can’t say for certain. He’d slid his legs down, under my arms, and hooked his feet behind my back. One arm around my shoulders, teeth in my neck, he’d hissed, “Give it to me, Doctor. Harder.” Hand gripping my hair, making the mess even worse, rocking his hips, swearing low in his throat.
I don’t know what he thinks of me, how he feels for me. I know him, but the minutia of his crazed mental ramblings? Totally open to speculation. I know what I’d like to believe, and I know that love makes my orgasms better. Both then and now.