Men Learned in the Humanities (Ten/Martha, NC-17)
Title: Men Learned in the Humanities
Author: sonatine_fic
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~700
Disclaimer: Intellectually, RTD and BBC own them, but really, they belong to the fans.
Spoilers: "Last of the Time Lords"
Summary: Men learned in the humanities are of the opinion that love sex is of four kinds.
Note: Title and structure cribbed from the Kama Sutra.
Men learned in the humanities are of the opinion that love is of four kinds:
Love acquired by continual habit
He wakes her up with a kiss at the end of every sleep cycle (she can’t call them days anymore when there’s no sun), and she pulls him down to the bed. He is deliberate, both in his disrobing of her nightthings and the way he touches her. His movements are slow and intent, like he wants to memorize everything about her body and its reactions. Sometimes she knows exactly what he will do (where he’ll place his fingers, cock, mouth just like--oh), and she is comforted by the predictability. At others she has no idea, and cries out in surprise as much as pleasure. (She’ll see him smile, and file an action away for further reference.) Always, he laces their fingers together as he fits his body to hers, and she arches against him, the rhythm now as familiar as running.
Love resulting from the imagination
There are a variety of scenarios she has envisioned. Once they shagged in the console room after the Lazarus party, adrenaline and desire so overwhelming they didn’t even bother to take off their clothes. (He does look utterly fantastic in a tux.) On a couple occasions they did it on the bed at The Elephant, her lust so intense she could taste the dust and sweat on his skin. Sometimes he wakes her up, slipping a hand between her thighs and his tongue in her mouth. Sometimes he comes to her in the middle of the night, when she’s so wound up and frustrated she barely knows what to do with herself. (This is more often than she’d like to admit.)
He caught her once, when she thought he was out and she left the door unlocked. She was mortified, but he just laughed and kissed her palm, taking her slick fingers into his mouth. The wetness is cool and unexpected, and the way he sucks at them, with tongue and a little bit of teeth, makes her shudder, a spike of want so intense she feels like she’ll be swamped. He kneels then, sliding his fingers inside her and burying his face between her legs. She twines her fingers in his hair as he works on her clit, measured like the tide. She doesn’t drown, but she still comes up for air afterwards, meeting his gaze as he looks up. His kisses taste like the sea, and they are better than she ever imagined.
Love resulting from belief
It’s not the cold, rain, or wind (although those are deeply unpleasant as well) that bothers her the most, but the never-ending walking. She now associates the dull throb in her feet with devastation: Stuttgart, Rotterdam, Chicago, Toronto, Buenos Aires, Guangzhou. Japan. She washes up in Korea, and a fisherman takes her in. When they find out who she is, a crowd gathers in the village square. Jin extends a hand to her, and she gets up, the familiar ache returning. She endures out of duty, but mostly because of love.
Love resulting from the perception of external objects
He slips his finger between her legs and rubs just so, and she comes so hard she sees stars. Breathless, she climbs off and lays next to him, enjoying the feel of doing nothing at all. He brushes kisses down the nape of her neck and along her collarbone before taking a nipple in his mouth, cool and wet and somehow remarkably libertine. She bats at him half-heartedly, because, really, four times is a bit ridiculous but he’s doing that thing with his teeth and she can’t bring herself to say anything. He looks up at her, hair wilder than normal, completely innocent.
“You know, sex pollen does wash off. And there is a ridiculously large shower behind that door.” He traces the curve of her hip with a finger, and she knows the argument is lost. She pulls him on top of her.
“Maybe in a little bit.”
They make it to seven before they collapse, laughing and drained, to sleep the sleep of the delightfully exhausted.
Author: sonatine_fic
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~700
Disclaimer: Intellectually, RTD and BBC own them, but really, they belong to the fans.
Spoilers: "Last of the Time Lords"
Summary: Men learned in the humanities are of the opinion that love sex is of four kinds.
Note: Title and structure cribbed from the Kama Sutra.
Men learned in the humanities are of the opinion that love is of four kinds:
Love acquired by continual habit
He wakes her up with a kiss at the end of every sleep cycle (she can’t call them days anymore when there’s no sun), and she pulls him down to the bed. He is deliberate, both in his disrobing of her nightthings and the way he touches her. His movements are slow and intent, like he wants to memorize everything about her body and its reactions. Sometimes she knows exactly what he will do (where he’ll place his fingers, cock, mouth just like--oh), and she is comforted by the predictability. At others she has no idea, and cries out in surprise as much as pleasure. (She’ll see him smile, and file an action away for further reference.) Always, he laces their fingers together as he fits his body to hers, and she arches against him, the rhythm now as familiar as running.
Love resulting from the imagination
There are a variety of scenarios she has envisioned. Once they shagged in the console room after the Lazarus party, adrenaline and desire so overwhelming they didn’t even bother to take off their clothes. (He does look utterly fantastic in a tux.) On a couple occasions they did it on the bed at The Elephant, her lust so intense she could taste the dust and sweat on his skin. Sometimes he wakes her up, slipping a hand between her thighs and his tongue in her mouth. Sometimes he comes to her in the middle of the night, when she’s so wound up and frustrated she barely knows what to do with herself. (This is more often than she’d like to admit.)
He caught her once, when she thought he was out and she left the door unlocked. She was mortified, but he just laughed and kissed her palm, taking her slick fingers into his mouth. The wetness is cool and unexpected, and the way he sucks at them, with tongue and a little bit of teeth, makes her shudder, a spike of want so intense she feels like she’ll be swamped. He kneels then, sliding his fingers inside her and burying his face between her legs. She twines her fingers in his hair as he works on her clit, measured like the tide. She doesn’t drown, but she still comes up for air afterwards, meeting his gaze as he looks up. His kisses taste like the sea, and they are better than she ever imagined.
Love resulting from belief
It’s not the cold, rain, or wind (although those are deeply unpleasant as well) that bothers her the most, but the never-ending walking. She now associates the dull throb in her feet with devastation: Stuttgart, Rotterdam, Chicago, Toronto, Buenos Aires, Guangzhou. Japan. She washes up in Korea, and a fisherman takes her in. When they find out who she is, a crowd gathers in the village square. Jin extends a hand to her, and she gets up, the familiar ache returning. She endures out of duty, but mostly because of love.
Love resulting from the perception of external objects
He slips his finger between her legs and rubs just so, and she comes so hard she sees stars. Breathless, she climbs off and lays next to him, enjoying the feel of doing nothing at all. He brushes kisses down the nape of her neck and along her collarbone before taking a nipple in his mouth, cool and wet and somehow remarkably libertine. She bats at him half-heartedly, because, really, four times is a bit ridiculous but he’s doing that thing with his teeth and she can’t bring herself to say anything. He looks up at her, hair wilder than normal, completely innocent.
“You know, sex pollen does wash off. And there is a ridiculously large shower behind that door.” He traces the curve of her hip with a finger, and she knows the argument is lost. She pulls him on top of her.
“Maybe in a little bit.”
They make it to seven before they collapse, laughing and drained, to sleep the sleep of the delightfully exhausted.