"Death And The Lady", Torchwood, Owen/Martha
Title: Death And The Lady
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Martha
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 075. Shade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1630
Genre: Het
Copyright: Title is a marvellous song by Bellowhead (who rock my world)
Summary: Angsty PWP. In a few hours, Martha will return to London, and it’s best that way.
Author’s Notes: Because sooner or later it was going to come into existence, and I thought, well, why not now? Spoilers for 2x08; set somewhere around that time period. And here is an irrelevant piece of information: I wrote most of this while test-driving a black and pink wig that I may or may not wear for Halloween this year. There you go: a random and faintly worrying insight into my writing processes!
All alone this pretty maid
By Death so cruelly was betrayed
And we all come stumbling after.
- Bellowhead
With perfect clarity, Owen reflects that if he hadn’t died this wouldn’t be happening. It’s not a comforting thought. But even if his body doesn’t make adrenalin any more and he no longer falls apart from shock, something’s still rich and wrong in him. Martha’s eyes are dark and wide, her lips curling up at the corners. Owen reaches and skims his good fingers over the dimples in her cheeks. He can’t feel them, but it makes Martha laugh anyway.
Now, there are no protestations of but I’m engaged, and Owen doesn’t have to work out the difference. If he’s still alive, Martha would feel guilty; but it isn’t cheating if one of the parties is dead, is it? At least he assumes that’s how her logic is working; or perhaps it’s just that release of anxiety and fear and exhaustion.
Owen is about to say something along the lines of what do you want, when Martha leans in and presses her lips to his. Owen wishes that he could feel more than he actually can; the pressure of her mouth, the pressure of her tongue against his. There’s no real sensation, just the dogged memories of what it used to be like, and when their lips slide together he knows that’s due entirely to Martha. Owen is cold and dried-out and broken. Not that Martha seems to mind; perhaps it’s just the part where he sat up off the autopsy table and quivered, dried blood still stuck to his chin. Anyone would be curious.
Martha’s hand, judging from the pressure, is against his hip, but she tries to slide it higher. Owen reaches with his bad hand to drag her touch lower again; he doesn’t want anyone near his chest, with its bulled hole and ragged flesh. It doesn’t seem like something that should be touched. She makes a soft sound against his mouth, and Owen tries to work out if his bandaged fingers are clenched too tightly around her wrist or not. It’s going to take time, he thinks, to work out how to function within this body that’s his but that was renovated - not for the best - in his absence.
In a few hours, Martha will return to London, and it’s best that way. She deserves the future that Torchwood Three can’t give her; she deserves to get out of this suffocating Hub, to go back to a boyfriend who loves her and isn’t just interested in her because he’s a) the biggest slut in the universe so it would be illogical for him not to want to get in her knickers, or b) dead and therefore, frankly, desperate. Right now, though, there’s the inevitable.
The pulse point in her neck vibrates against his lips; Martha’s heart is beating so fast, and it’s all for him. Owen smiles, laying cool kisses against her throat. Martha’s fingers run through the back of his hair; Owen can feel the pressure against his scalp. He pushes forward a little, and the back of Martha’s legs hit the autopsy table. She half lies back on it, dark eyes glinting in the crappy Hub lighting. Owen wonders what she expects from him; his cock remains in his jeans, permanently dead and numb. For a second, he imagines his heart pounding his ribs in anticipation; but all that’s in his chest is a twisted flat lump of metal that no one’s quite plucked up the courage to remove yet.
Clumsy fingers fumble with the buttons of Matha’s shirt; her breasts rise and fall with her breathing, and they are the best breasts Owen has seen in a long time. He feels wasted and useless, reaching around to flick open her bra. He doesn’t need feeling in his hands for that; no, Owen is far too good at getting a woman’s underwear off one-handed. It’s a sleazy speciality, but it’s always served him well.
Martha half-smiles, as though in acknowledgement of his thoughts, and then her bra (practical, for work, with a little red bow in the cleavage area because she’s hardly a nun) slides down her arms and Owen cups a breast in his good hand out of duty, if nothing else. Martha gasps, and he can see her nipples hardening both from his touch and the temperature of it. He tries to imagine what this must feel like to her; her skin must be burning, while he’s permanently at room temperature. Earlier today, she sewed his palm back together while he sat on his table and wouldn’t meet her eyes; now, Owen twists her nipple between his fingers just to watch Martha’s head tip back in pure want.
It’s beautiful, and it’s kind of nice to know he can still produce that kind of feeling in someone.
Owen’s holding her upright with his bad hand braced against her lower back, and Martha’s thigh is between his, her leg curled around his calf. Owen wishes he could really feel any of it; he wonders how warm she is, watching the first beads of sweat break out on her neck and wondering just how dead he feels to her. He kisses her again, telling himself he likes it, working mainly on memories and the way Martha’s fingers slip on his shoulders.
They don’t break eye contact as Owen’s hand slides down her stomach, and Martha helps him undo the buttons of her trousers. Her hips shift, sliding the trousers further down, and it’s sweet that her knickers match her bra. Somehow that figures, and Owen can see even before he pulls them away that there’s a wet patch on the crotch. What is it about dead boys, Martha Jones? But he’ll never ask, and Martha’s eyes are closed, the lashes fluttering just a little.
It’s impossible to tell if Martha’s wet or not by touch alone; but Owen’s fingers slip when he finally curls them between her legs, and he assumes for the best. Martha whimpers, hand still on his shoulder, breathing loud and heavy and Owen imagines that breathing for both of them, because he feels so detached from this that it’s a little scary. He finds her clit mostly from memory, fingers sliding clumsily while his training in anatomy tries to work this all out. He knows when he’s finally there, though, because Martha draws in a sharp breath and murmurs Owen, so he rubs again, just because he likes to see her breathing.
Martha’s keeping up a constant mantra of Oh my God, Oh my God, and Owen likes that she likes this. She pushes down against his hand, her clit shifting against his fingers, and Owen watches the shift of pleasure on her face, trying to remember what this sort of thing actually felt like. He hasn’t been dead long, but fuck, it’s slipping away so fast.
Knowing that Martha wants more, though she’ll never voice it aloud, Owen slides his fingers through her wetness until he finds the entrance to her cunt, slipping two fingers in. Martha’s eyes widen.
“You’re so cold,” she breathes.
“Thought you’d have figured that out by now, sweetheart,” Owen tells her with a mocking smirk, and Martha shakes her head.
“It’s... it’s...”
Owen remembers teasing, remembers how much fun that was. “I can stop,” he offers, pulling his fingers out. There’s a quiet, wet sound as he does so, and Martha gasps.
“Zombie bastard,” she whispers, which makes Owen laugh, and he slips his fingers back inside her.
“You’re going to have to help me here a little,” he mumbles, scissoring his fingers, which brings forth some other delicious noises from her lips. “My sense of touch isn’t what it used to be.”
Martha nods, legs parting a little more. “Up,” she says, voice cracking at the edges. “And left… no, my left… oh.”
Owen slides a third finger into her cunt, thumb still pressed against her clit, and Martha’s hips move against his hand. There are wet sounds where they touch, and Martha’s breathing is getting ever more erratic. Owen closes his eyes and tries to imagine some enjoyment on his part; but it seems that he’ll have to be selfless forever, because sex holds no appeal for him any more. Oh, Martha’s beautiful, and it’s nice watching her composure crack against him, but sex is meaningless now. Which is just… shit really.
When she comes, Martha repeats his name over and over in a low mumble, head thrown back and chest heaving. He feels the pressure of her clenching around him, the first thing he’s felt from her in a while. She’s gorgeous, she really is, but Owen just wants to cry because he wanted so much more from this than he got. His fingers slide out of Martha easily, and he looks at her wetness glistening over his hand with interest. It shines under the crappy autopsy lights, and he imagines the autopsy room now smells like sex; not that he can tell.
Owen washes his hands in the sink, while Martha pulls herself back together. He hears the shifting of fabric but doesn’t turn around; he’s barely interested. He wishes that he was; it might make this all easier.
“Are you ok?” Martha’s hands touch his back, and Owen turns, putting together a smile.
“Yeah. You?”
Martha nods, then stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him; swift and gentle. Owen decides that if she’s about to thank him, he’ll snap the rest of the fingers on his left hand, or move into the Bay permanently.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against his cheek, and then walks towards the stairs without looking back. Maybe she’s worked out more than Owen thought she had; Martha’s not an idiot by any means.
He waits until she’s gone before murmuring: “Yeah, so am I.”
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Martha
Challenge/Prompt: fanfic100, 075. Shade
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1630
Genre: Het
Copyright: Title is a marvellous song by Bellowhead (who rock my world)
Summary: Angsty PWP. In a few hours, Martha will return to London, and it’s best that way.
Author’s Notes: Because sooner or later it was going to come into existence, and I thought, well, why not now? Spoilers for 2x08; set somewhere around that time period. And here is an irrelevant piece of information: I wrote most of this while test-driving a black and pink wig that I may or may not wear for Halloween this year. There you go: a random and faintly worrying insight into my writing processes!
All alone this pretty maid
By Death so cruelly was betrayed
And we all come stumbling after.
- Bellowhead
With perfect clarity, Owen reflects that if he hadn’t died this wouldn’t be happening. It’s not a comforting thought. But even if his body doesn’t make adrenalin any more and he no longer falls apart from shock, something’s still rich and wrong in him. Martha’s eyes are dark and wide, her lips curling up at the corners. Owen reaches and skims his good fingers over the dimples in her cheeks. He can’t feel them, but it makes Martha laugh anyway.
Now, there are no protestations of but I’m engaged, and Owen doesn’t have to work out the difference. If he’s still alive, Martha would feel guilty; but it isn’t cheating if one of the parties is dead, is it? At least he assumes that’s how her logic is working; or perhaps it’s just that release of anxiety and fear and exhaustion.
Owen is about to say something along the lines of what do you want, when Martha leans in and presses her lips to his. Owen wishes that he could feel more than he actually can; the pressure of her mouth, the pressure of her tongue against his. There’s no real sensation, just the dogged memories of what it used to be like, and when their lips slide together he knows that’s due entirely to Martha. Owen is cold and dried-out and broken. Not that Martha seems to mind; perhaps it’s just the part where he sat up off the autopsy table and quivered, dried blood still stuck to his chin. Anyone would be curious.
Martha’s hand, judging from the pressure, is against his hip, but she tries to slide it higher. Owen reaches with his bad hand to drag her touch lower again; he doesn’t want anyone near his chest, with its bulled hole and ragged flesh. It doesn’t seem like something that should be touched. She makes a soft sound against his mouth, and Owen tries to work out if his bandaged fingers are clenched too tightly around her wrist or not. It’s going to take time, he thinks, to work out how to function within this body that’s his but that was renovated - not for the best - in his absence.
In a few hours, Martha will return to London, and it’s best that way. She deserves the future that Torchwood Three can’t give her; she deserves to get out of this suffocating Hub, to go back to a boyfriend who loves her and isn’t just interested in her because he’s a) the biggest slut in the universe so it would be illogical for him not to want to get in her knickers, or b) dead and therefore, frankly, desperate. Right now, though, there’s the inevitable.
The pulse point in her neck vibrates against his lips; Martha’s heart is beating so fast, and it’s all for him. Owen smiles, laying cool kisses against her throat. Martha’s fingers run through the back of his hair; Owen can feel the pressure against his scalp. He pushes forward a little, and the back of Martha’s legs hit the autopsy table. She half lies back on it, dark eyes glinting in the crappy Hub lighting. Owen wonders what she expects from him; his cock remains in his jeans, permanently dead and numb. For a second, he imagines his heart pounding his ribs in anticipation; but all that’s in his chest is a twisted flat lump of metal that no one’s quite plucked up the courage to remove yet.
Clumsy fingers fumble with the buttons of Matha’s shirt; her breasts rise and fall with her breathing, and they are the best breasts Owen has seen in a long time. He feels wasted and useless, reaching around to flick open her bra. He doesn’t need feeling in his hands for that; no, Owen is far too good at getting a woman’s underwear off one-handed. It’s a sleazy speciality, but it’s always served him well.
Martha half-smiles, as though in acknowledgement of his thoughts, and then her bra (practical, for work, with a little red bow in the cleavage area because she’s hardly a nun) slides down her arms and Owen cups a breast in his good hand out of duty, if nothing else. Martha gasps, and he can see her nipples hardening both from his touch and the temperature of it. He tries to imagine what this must feel like to her; her skin must be burning, while he’s permanently at room temperature. Earlier today, she sewed his palm back together while he sat on his table and wouldn’t meet her eyes; now, Owen twists her nipple between his fingers just to watch Martha’s head tip back in pure want.
It’s beautiful, and it’s kind of nice to know he can still produce that kind of feeling in someone.
Owen’s holding her upright with his bad hand braced against her lower back, and Martha’s thigh is between his, her leg curled around his calf. Owen wishes he could really feel any of it; he wonders how warm she is, watching the first beads of sweat break out on her neck and wondering just how dead he feels to her. He kisses her again, telling himself he likes it, working mainly on memories and the way Martha’s fingers slip on his shoulders.
They don’t break eye contact as Owen’s hand slides down her stomach, and Martha helps him undo the buttons of her trousers. Her hips shift, sliding the trousers further down, and it’s sweet that her knickers match her bra. Somehow that figures, and Owen can see even before he pulls them away that there’s a wet patch on the crotch. What is it about dead boys, Martha Jones? But he’ll never ask, and Martha’s eyes are closed, the lashes fluttering just a little.
It’s impossible to tell if Martha’s wet or not by touch alone; but Owen’s fingers slip when he finally curls them between her legs, and he assumes for the best. Martha whimpers, hand still on his shoulder, breathing loud and heavy and Owen imagines that breathing for both of them, because he feels so detached from this that it’s a little scary. He finds her clit mostly from memory, fingers sliding clumsily while his training in anatomy tries to work this all out. He knows when he’s finally there, though, because Martha draws in a sharp breath and murmurs Owen, so he rubs again, just because he likes to see her breathing.
Martha’s keeping up a constant mantra of Oh my God, Oh my God, and Owen likes that she likes this. She pushes down against his hand, her clit shifting against his fingers, and Owen watches the shift of pleasure on her face, trying to remember what this sort of thing actually felt like. He hasn’t been dead long, but fuck, it’s slipping away so fast.
Knowing that Martha wants more, though she’ll never voice it aloud, Owen slides his fingers through her wetness until he finds the entrance to her cunt, slipping two fingers in. Martha’s eyes widen.
“You’re so cold,” she breathes.
“Thought you’d have figured that out by now, sweetheart,” Owen tells her with a mocking smirk, and Martha shakes her head.
“It’s... it’s...”
Owen remembers teasing, remembers how much fun that was. “I can stop,” he offers, pulling his fingers out. There’s a quiet, wet sound as he does so, and Martha gasps.
“Zombie bastard,” she whispers, which makes Owen laugh, and he slips his fingers back inside her.
“You’re going to have to help me here a little,” he mumbles, scissoring his fingers, which brings forth some other delicious noises from her lips. “My sense of touch isn’t what it used to be.”
Martha nods, legs parting a little more. “Up,” she says, voice cracking at the edges. “And left… no, my left… oh.”
Owen slides a third finger into her cunt, thumb still pressed against her clit, and Martha’s hips move against his hand. There are wet sounds where they touch, and Martha’s breathing is getting ever more erratic. Owen closes his eyes and tries to imagine some enjoyment on his part; but it seems that he’ll have to be selfless forever, because sex holds no appeal for him any more. Oh, Martha’s beautiful, and it’s nice watching her composure crack against him, but sex is meaningless now. Which is just… shit really.
When she comes, Martha repeats his name over and over in a low mumble, head thrown back and chest heaving. He feels the pressure of her clenching around him, the first thing he’s felt from her in a while. She’s gorgeous, she really is, but Owen just wants to cry because he wanted so much more from this than he got. His fingers slide out of Martha easily, and he looks at her wetness glistening over his hand with interest. It shines under the crappy autopsy lights, and he imagines the autopsy room now smells like sex; not that he can tell.
Owen washes his hands in the sink, while Martha pulls herself back together. He hears the shifting of fabric but doesn’t turn around; he’s barely interested. He wishes that he was; it might make this all easier.
“Are you ok?” Martha’s hands touch his back, and Owen turns, putting together a smile.
“Yeah. You?”
Martha nods, then stands up on her tiptoes to kiss him; swift and gentle. Owen decides that if she’s about to thank him, he’ll snap the rest of the fingers on his left hand, or move into the Bay permanently.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against his cheek, and then walks towards the stairs without looking back. Maybe she’s worked out more than Owen thought she had; Martha’s not an idiot by any means.
He waits until she’s gone before murmuring: “Yeah, so am I.”