Fic: To Hold (Martha/Ten, Martha/Tom) - PORN
Title: To Hold
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Martha/Ten, Martha/Tom
Word Count: 2,690
Summary: Martha is still haunted by her feelings for Ten and confused as to what bearing this has on her engagement to Tom. About two steps from PWP, this was written for the porn.
Martha knows it is him. They are sitting on a window ledge, the ruined mansion behind them and city in front. They are waiting for the train to school. They are talking and Martha is counting the seconds in her mind. 1, 2, and 3. What he says is riveting but it doesn't matter because how he says it is all she cares about. She picks at the grass sprouting between the cracks in the masonry, it is rough between her fingers. 64 and she's kissing the Doctor, feeling him warm and pliant. It's like those few seconds before falling asleep or waking when the bedding envelops you so lovingly.
The hill is steep and the farther she walks the farther the distance to the top becomes. She wants to get there because he told her to meet him there. There they will fall into bed and possibly more. She knows this is true, but only if she reaches the destination, otherwise it's off and she may never get a second chance. Her entire existence is to that purpose as she walks across the narrow bridge. The bridge should be frightening, after all she could fall, but it is more like a game. She mustn't let mother see her. The boards are weak and the wind kicks up suddenly, intent to blow her away. She barely holds on enough to crawl into the cave. It's even so deep and ever so damp. She knows the key is here somewhere so she digs, dirt under her nails. She digs but it must be the wrong corner. The next one is wrong too and she begins to feel that maybe she is making it up, maybe there never was anything to find.
They are in the TARDIS control room eating noodles and her dress does not fit as it's meant to. Possibly it is backwards. Possibly it is someone else's dress. Martha tries to count the constellations but they keep moving. He is drifting further away. He is one of those ever shifting stars. She reaches into her purse for her glasses but headphones are tangled around everything. There are pills and a doll with frighteningly long eyelashes. She cannot find her glasses. She watches herself sort the contents of trunks and boxes. The same doll is now in a wooden box with an ornate clasp, unsent letters to long forgotten teenage crushes litter the floor. There is one to him that she hides under the rest. After that she cannot find the headphones in her purse.
He is behind her now, so she sees herself turn. Their bodies press together. He is burning against her bare chest as she presses back, trousers thin between them and her jeans with buttons to fumble at. So close and yet not enough. She watches and wants, but cannot quite feel. It's like she's a third wheel in this equation. She's left herself out. No, she focuses, feels his skin against hers and the pressure building but it's slipping away, slipping away completely.
Martha wakes to a neck that is sore from the way Tom's arm lies under it, and rolls away to the edge of the bed, bending around to avoid his hand. Her heart and mind race uneasily as she thinks about the dream she's woken from and guiltily realizes how disappointed she was to wake up. She has work too early for much leeway so she ought to go back to sleeping, but now she's thinking about dreams and Tom's arm and it seems unlikely. She curls a foot around his leg, hoping to drift into unconsciousness instead of wrapping her brain around things that only cause her anxiety and will leave her craving a pick me up in the morning.
Instead she remembers.
It was a horrible night back when they were stuck, TARDIS-less, during that incident with the weeping angels. The flat was small, a little box whose roof clanged when the rain struck it. The last tenants had left behind a bottle of whiskey in one of the cupboards and there seemed to be nothing for it but to drink said whiskey under the circumstances.
They sat, back to back, on the narrow bed, passing the bottle back and forth. Martha could feel his warmth seeping through his clothes. This was not like the last time that they drank a lot, when she lost her favorite pair of shoes and then discovered that the Doctor wasn't really effected by alcohol for some reason and felt embarrassed. Tonight they trade stories, and he tells her about things he'd usually avoid. That is to say, things relating to Gallifrey and thing relating to other Time Lords and Ladies. What kind of ridiculous name is that to call yourself? she thought to herself at the time. It was pretentious. Martha wanted him to keep talking, because he had more stories and they were more exciting, but he insisted on her taking her turn. He liked to hear about every day humanity, about school girl infatuations and siblings rivalries.
He laid his head in her lap and she almost wanted to pet his hair like a small animal or child. She must have been talking about global politics or mathematical proofs by this point, but what she remembers is him looking up at her like that and feeling flushed and wound up. The rush of anticipation was high and she had to excuse herself and go to bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. When she came back she was certain he'd be talking about thermo-dynamics and the moment would have passed. For him there was never a moment in the first place.
He was still on the bed, however. She walked up and he reached out a hand to pull her down next to him and wrapped his arms around, snuggling against her. Not for the first time, Martha was glad to have a woman's biology, not the potentially embarrassing one of a man. This way it was possible to pretend that she was being affectionate and not aching with primal desperation. He was talking still, babbling about places they might never go, planning technology they had no access to. Martha knew that she was lying with every moment they stayed like this, lying acting like she wasn't thinking of more. Then suddenly he paused, and as his face met hers she knew she'd been fooling no one. She'd been so preoccupied by her own aroused state that she hadn't noticed until he pressed close against her, but now she felt the evidence of anatomy that he shared with human males. He was turned on too, and she'd have figured in out if she hadn't been so loathe betray her own need.
Logically, Martha knew that the shivers down her spine at his kiss were more about anticipation and the way she'd been pressed up against him for the last hour than the actual kissing. Not that is wasn't good kissing, but it was more hurried than she usually would have liked. Tonight she felt the urgency.
His breath and lips on her tingling skin had her shaking a little, wanting to reach down and feel firsthand, but part of her worried that maybe she should let him take the lead or she would risk turning the tables in the wrong direction and he'd back away. As in everything, it seemed the Doctor was the one person she didn't get to take the lead with. But he was sliding his hands up under her tank top and she held her breath as he unclasped her bra, cupping her breasts as his mouth wandered down past her collarbone. He didn't make any attempt to remove or push away her shirt, finding her nipples through the fabric and teasing them through it with his mouth. She was torn between wanting to lie back and enjoy every last detail of this experience and the desire to be fucking already. That was the correct term for the feeling, because the part of her that was motivated by emotions instead of sensations wasn't responsible for the pounding ache to have him inside of her and ride him until they both collapsed. No, that was these months of teasing and tantalizing, cumulating in tonight.
He was holding her so close that it was hard to get a hand between them to work on the opening of his trousers. He didn't back away, though. He pressed himself forward instead, she could feel him stammer against her body in reaction. Sliding her hand up and down proved to completely incapacitate him, as he laid beneath her, his movements jerky, almost a caricature of every man. His body shook in reaction to her touch as she peeled his clothes off him, one hand keeping the rhythm going. He was still talking, although he was slurring words so quickly that Martha had no idea what about.
His efforts to undress her were failure, as his movements were too broken to succeed with the distraction of her hand so Martha let up and helped him instead. When he pulled her back down on top of him, flesh burning and both hearts pounding against her chest, Martha captured his lips again, feeling the words form against her mouth. Evidently, he really never did shut up. Having come this far, Martha allowed herself to get lost in the moment a little, lips and hands everywhere and the feeling of bare skin.
At last, he slid into her easily; his tall lean anatomy remained consistent, and she was more than ready. Martha rode him, like a woman possessed. She was consumed by all the fantasies that had to be shoved away and the raw need to have him. It was predatory and urgent, and deep as he was inside her, the need was overwhelming her even more than before. It was no longer words coming out of his mouth, at least not from any language Martha had ever heard. Tears might have been streaming down her face as the pent up energy came pouring out of her, an unrelenting tide.
When he flipped her over, hands at her hips, she whimpered and clutched the back of his neck, arching up against him. She wanted him to take her, wanted him to need and not just submit, she felt on the edge, like release was drawing close, that cleansing sensation of complete surrender. But it was too fast and too abrupt, the impact was unpleasant and her breasts bounced painfully. She had to move her hands to them to keep from being further jostled and looked up, hoping he would notice, but he looked far away. Her thighs felt chaffed and, each moment that passed with his spastic disregard, she felt farther from the hoped for ecstasy.
She just wanted him to finish. Focusing on that brought some of the intensity back as she raked her nails down his back, enjoying the way he convulsed in reaction when she squeezed a little. When he came, which didn't take long, she felt pleased and disappointed and wished he would say something, but he was already asleep.
The next morning, he'd already been gone and then had acted as if nothing had happened. If she hadn't known better about him and alcohol, she would have thought he'd blacked out.
This memory isn't helping matters. Tom is fast asleep, peaceful and secure. Martha wonders how he'd feel if he knew the truth of their meeting and the part of her heart that he can never have. She feels a little sick. Her engagement ring glints in the darkness and Martha wonders whether she is being unfair to him. A lifetime suddenly seems a long time, unlike it's brevity in comparison with the span of time for the TARDIS. Tom is a wonderful man, and she loves waking up and making breakfast together, planning a life. Part of her wonders if she's lying to herself though. Is she going to wake up one day and realize this was all a pleasant diversion but her heart isn't in it? Will she become one of those wives who no longer shares her husband's bed? Are these dreams about the Doctor, an unforgivable transgression? She takes a deep breath and remembers that the one time didn't go so well, that night in the past, before she met Tom. She reminds herself that everyone is attracted to other people. She looks over and finds Tom staring up at her sleepily.
She leans over and kisses him. Their kisses are slow and lingering. They lie side by side, facing each other and Martha grins mischievously before diving under the sheets. He moans as her mouth closes around him, working him up that way, hoping that that the things she can give him will be enough for them both. She enjoys hearing him tell her her how much he enjoys it, as she licks a line along the bottom and then slides the tip back into her mouth, slowly sinking down.
He's running his hands over her body and he pulls her up from where she is between his legs to seat her against the wall. Her legs part for him as he reaches down to find that she's wet already, part of it is the excitement of his reaction and he need never know about all the other sex related thoughts and dreams she's had tonight that don't involve him. He knows just the angle to bend his fingers inside of her, that spot that leaves her legs shaking as she whispers that she wants him to take her now.
Tom is thick and it always takes a little maneuvering to make it work at first, no matter how worked up she gets, but once he does she wants nothing more that to squeeze around him and enjoy the sensation of him inside her. So they pause for a moment. He cradles her face in his hand as he kisses her and the other one covers one of her breasts, making her squirm.
He takes the lead, but she moves with him, drawing the sensations out as they grind slowly at first but with increasing urgency. She blocks out a thought about reunions with the Doctor with declarations of love and tender caresses. She looks into Tom's handsome face and says his name. Their bodies are pressed together at a perfect angle to hit all her most sensitive spots. She's getting close now, urged on by his gasping breath and the knowledge that when she comes for him it will bring Tom that much closer to the edge.
She rides out her orgasm with him, pulling a mirror response and, while he's still shuddering and shaking, he kisses her shoulders, neck, and hair. His sleepy smile returns and he curls up behind her, whispering he loves her in her ear as he falls back asleep.
She lies awake still, wondering if maybe the Doctor was trying to be kind. Because she doesn't know, is it better to be with someone you think the world of, even if you know that they love you with an abandon they cannot match? Or is it better to lower expectations, to set them free to find a love more equal? Tom took a bullet for her, a bullet for the Doctor. Would she have stayed, if the Doctor had told her the joys and the pains and what he could and couldn't offer? She would have stayed, if he hadn't held back. She didn't begrudge him that corner in his hearts that broke when the walls of the universe sealed up. She was driven away by his choices, the choices on her behalf. So it's not for her to decide. Before they walk down the aisle, before he makes a promise based on misinformation, she's going to tell Tom her story, all of it. All of their story. If he leaves, she will understand, but she loves him enough to not make his decisions for him. She is not some lonely god.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Martha/Ten, Martha/Tom
Word Count: 2,690
Summary: Martha is still haunted by her feelings for Ten and confused as to what bearing this has on her engagement to Tom. About two steps from PWP, this was written for the porn.
Martha knows it is him. They are sitting on a window ledge, the ruined mansion behind them and city in front. They are waiting for the train to school. They are talking and Martha is counting the seconds in her mind. 1, 2, and 3. What he says is riveting but it doesn't matter because how he says it is all she cares about. She picks at the grass sprouting between the cracks in the masonry, it is rough between her fingers. 64 and she's kissing the Doctor, feeling him warm and pliant. It's like those few seconds before falling asleep or waking when the bedding envelops you so lovingly.
The hill is steep and the farther she walks the farther the distance to the top becomes. She wants to get there because he told her to meet him there. There they will fall into bed and possibly more. She knows this is true, but only if she reaches the destination, otherwise it's off and she may never get a second chance. Her entire existence is to that purpose as she walks across the narrow bridge. The bridge should be frightening, after all she could fall, but it is more like a game. She mustn't let mother see her. The boards are weak and the wind kicks up suddenly, intent to blow her away. She barely holds on enough to crawl into the cave. It's even so deep and ever so damp. She knows the key is here somewhere so she digs, dirt under her nails. She digs but it must be the wrong corner. The next one is wrong too and she begins to feel that maybe she is making it up, maybe there never was anything to find.
They are in the TARDIS control room eating noodles and her dress does not fit as it's meant to. Possibly it is backwards. Possibly it is someone else's dress. Martha tries to count the constellations but they keep moving. He is drifting further away. He is one of those ever shifting stars. She reaches into her purse for her glasses but headphones are tangled around everything. There are pills and a doll with frighteningly long eyelashes. She cannot find her glasses. She watches herself sort the contents of trunks and boxes. The same doll is now in a wooden box with an ornate clasp, unsent letters to long forgotten teenage crushes litter the floor. There is one to him that she hides under the rest. After that she cannot find the headphones in her purse.
He is behind her now, so she sees herself turn. Their bodies press together. He is burning against her bare chest as she presses back, trousers thin between them and her jeans with buttons to fumble at. So close and yet not enough. She watches and wants, but cannot quite feel. It's like she's a third wheel in this equation. She's left herself out. No, she focuses, feels his skin against hers and the pressure building but it's slipping away, slipping away completely.
Martha wakes to a neck that is sore from the way Tom's arm lies under it, and rolls away to the edge of the bed, bending around to avoid his hand. Her heart and mind race uneasily as she thinks about the dream she's woken from and guiltily realizes how disappointed she was to wake up. She has work too early for much leeway so she ought to go back to sleeping, but now she's thinking about dreams and Tom's arm and it seems unlikely. She curls a foot around his leg, hoping to drift into unconsciousness instead of wrapping her brain around things that only cause her anxiety and will leave her craving a pick me up in the morning.
Instead she remembers.
It was a horrible night back when they were stuck, TARDIS-less, during that incident with the weeping angels. The flat was small, a little box whose roof clanged when the rain struck it. The last tenants had left behind a bottle of whiskey in one of the cupboards and there seemed to be nothing for it but to drink said whiskey under the circumstances.
They sat, back to back, on the narrow bed, passing the bottle back and forth. Martha could feel his warmth seeping through his clothes. This was not like the last time that they drank a lot, when she lost her favorite pair of shoes and then discovered that the Doctor wasn't really effected by alcohol for some reason and felt embarrassed. Tonight they trade stories, and he tells her about things he'd usually avoid. That is to say, things relating to Gallifrey and thing relating to other Time Lords and Ladies. What kind of ridiculous name is that to call yourself? she thought to herself at the time. It was pretentious. Martha wanted him to keep talking, because he had more stories and they were more exciting, but he insisted on her taking her turn. He liked to hear about every day humanity, about school girl infatuations and siblings rivalries.
He laid his head in her lap and she almost wanted to pet his hair like a small animal or child. She must have been talking about global politics or mathematical proofs by this point, but what she remembers is him looking up at her like that and feeling flushed and wound up. The rush of anticipation was high and she had to excuse herself and go to bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. When she came back she was certain he'd be talking about thermo-dynamics and the moment would have passed. For him there was never a moment in the first place.
He was still on the bed, however. She walked up and he reached out a hand to pull her down next to him and wrapped his arms around, snuggling against her. Not for the first time, Martha was glad to have a woman's biology, not the potentially embarrassing one of a man. This way it was possible to pretend that she was being affectionate and not aching with primal desperation. He was talking still, babbling about places they might never go, planning technology they had no access to. Martha knew that she was lying with every moment they stayed like this, lying acting like she wasn't thinking of more. Then suddenly he paused, and as his face met hers she knew she'd been fooling no one. She'd been so preoccupied by her own aroused state that she hadn't noticed until he pressed close against her, but now she felt the evidence of anatomy that he shared with human males. He was turned on too, and she'd have figured in out if she hadn't been so loathe betray her own need.
Logically, Martha knew that the shivers down her spine at his kiss were more about anticipation and the way she'd been pressed up against him for the last hour than the actual kissing. Not that is wasn't good kissing, but it was more hurried than she usually would have liked. Tonight she felt the urgency.
His breath and lips on her tingling skin had her shaking a little, wanting to reach down and feel firsthand, but part of her worried that maybe she should let him take the lead or she would risk turning the tables in the wrong direction and he'd back away. As in everything, it seemed the Doctor was the one person she didn't get to take the lead with. But he was sliding his hands up under her tank top and she held her breath as he unclasped her bra, cupping her breasts as his mouth wandered down past her collarbone. He didn't make any attempt to remove or push away her shirt, finding her nipples through the fabric and teasing them through it with his mouth. She was torn between wanting to lie back and enjoy every last detail of this experience and the desire to be fucking already. That was the correct term for the feeling, because the part of her that was motivated by emotions instead of sensations wasn't responsible for the pounding ache to have him inside of her and ride him until they both collapsed. No, that was these months of teasing and tantalizing, cumulating in tonight.
He was holding her so close that it was hard to get a hand between them to work on the opening of his trousers. He didn't back away, though. He pressed himself forward instead, she could feel him stammer against her body in reaction. Sliding her hand up and down proved to completely incapacitate him, as he laid beneath her, his movements jerky, almost a caricature of every man. His body shook in reaction to her touch as she peeled his clothes off him, one hand keeping the rhythm going. He was still talking, although he was slurring words so quickly that Martha had no idea what about.
His efforts to undress her were failure, as his movements were too broken to succeed with the distraction of her hand so Martha let up and helped him instead. When he pulled her back down on top of him, flesh burning and both hearts pounding against her chest, Martha captured his lips again, feeling the words form against her mouth. Evidently, he really never did shut up. Having come this far, Martha allowed herself to get lost in the moment a little, lips and hands everywhere and the feeling of bare skin.
At last, he slid into her easily; his tall lean anatomy remained consistent, and she was more than ready. Martha rode him, like a woman possessed. She was consumed by all the fantasies that had to be shoved away and the raw need to have him. It was predatory and urgent, and deep as he was inside her, the need was overwhelming her even more than before. It was no longer words coming out of his mouth, at least not from any language Martha had ever heard. Tears might have been streaming down her face as the pent up energy came pouring out of her, an unrelenting tide.
When he flipped her over, hands at her hips, she whimpered and clutched the back of his neck, arching up against him. She wanted him to take her, wanted him to need and not just submit, she felt on the edge, like release was drawing close, that cleansing sensation of complete surrender. But it was too fast and too abrupt, the impact was unpleasant and her breasts bounced painfully. She had to move her hands to them to keep from being further jostled and looked up, hoping he would notice, but he looked far away. Her thighs felt chaffed and, each moment that passed with his spastic disregard, she felt farther from the hoped for ecstasy.
She just wanted him to finish. Focusing on that brought some of the intensity back as she raked her nails down his back, enjoying the way he convulsed in reaction when she squeezed a little. When he came, which didn't take long, she felt pleased and disappointed and wished he would say something, but he was already asleep.
The next morning, he'd already been gone and then had acted as if nothing had happened. If she hadn't known better about him and alcohol, she would have thought he'd blacked out.
This memory isn't helping matters. Tom is fast asleep, peaceful and secure. Martha wonders how he'd feel if he knew the truth of their meeting and the part of her heart that he can never have. She feels a little sick. Her engagement ring glints in the darkness and Martha wonders whether she is being unfair to him. A lifetime suddenly seems a long time, unlike it's brevity in comparison with the span of time for the TARDIS. Tom is a wonderful man, and she loves waking up and making breakfast together, planning a life. Part of her wonders if she's lying to herself though. Is she going to wake up one day and realize this was all a pleasant diversion but her heart isn't in it? Will she become one of those wives who no longer shares her husband's bed? Are these dreams about the Doctor, an unforgivable transgression? She takes a deep breath and remembers that the one time didn't go so well, that night in the past, before she met Tom. She reminds herself that everyone is attracted to other people. She looks over and finds Tom staring up at her sleepily.
She leans over and kisses him. Their kisses are slow and lingering. They lie side by side, facing each other and Martha grins mischievously before diving under the sheets. He moans as her mouth closes around him, working him up that way, hoping that that the things she can give him will be enough for them both. She enjoys hearing him tell her her how much he enjoys it, as she licks a line along the bottom and then slides the tip back into her mouth, slowly sinking down.
He's running his hands over her body and he pulls her up from where she is between his legs to seat her against the wall. Her legs part for him as he reaches down to find that she's wet already, part of it is the excitement of his reaction and he need never know about all the other sex related thoughts and dreams she's had tonight that don't involve him. He knows just the angle to bend his fingers inside of her, that spot that leaves her legs shaking as she whispers that she wants him to take her now.
Tom is thick and it always takes a little maneuvering to make it work at first, no matter how worked up she gets, but once he does she wants nothing more that to squeeze around him and enjoy the sensation of him inside her. So they pause for a moment. He cradles her face in his hand as he kisses her and the other one covers one of her breasts, making her squirm.
He takes the lead, but she moves with him, drawing the sensations out as they grind slowly at first but with increasing urgency. She blocks out a thought about reunions with the Doctor with declarations of love and tender caresses. She looks into Tom's handsome face and says his name. Their bodies are pressed together at a perfect angle to hit all her most sensitive spots. She's getting close now, urged on by his gasping breath and the knowledge that when she comes for him it will bring Tom that much closer to the edge.
She rides out her orgasm with him, pulling a mirror response and, while he's still shuddering and shaking, he kisses her shoulders, neck, and hair. His sleepy smile returns and he curls up behind her, whispering he loves her in her ear as he falls back asleep.
She lies awake still, wondering if maybe the Doctor was trying to be kind. Because she doesn't know, is it better to be with someone you think the world of, even if you know that they love you with an abandon they cannot match? Or is it better to lower expectations, to set them free to find a love more equal? Tom took a bullet for her, a bullet for the Doctor. Would she have stayed, if the Doctor had told her the joys and the pains and what he could and couldn't offer? She would have stayed, if he hadn't held back. She didn't begrudge him that corner in his hearts that broke when the walls of the universe sealed up. She was driven away by his choices, the choices on her behalf. So it's not for her to decide. Before they walk down the aisle, before he makes a promise based on misinformation, she's going to tell Tom her story, all of it. All of their story. If he leaves, she will understand, but she loves him enough to not make his decisions for him. She is not some lonely god.