Fifty-First Century Girl
Title: Fifty-First Century Girl
Word count: ~2700
Characters/pairings: Amy/Martha (background Martha/Mickey and Amy/Rory)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Amy is a twenty-first century girl. Martha thinks Jack has possibly been a bad influence. Set during New Who S6.
Warnings: Semi-open relationships
Disclaimer: The boys and girls belong to the BBC, even though I’m often much nicer to them than they are.
Author’s Notes: This is a cleaned-up version of the fic I wrote for eruthros for femslash11. All my thanks to teenageworrier for the super-speedy beta and to anna_unfolding for the marvellously thorough one.
Martha Jones had not expected to return to the TARDIS with a Scottish redhead dragging her into it. The Doctor had never yet been ginger, after all, and he generally had better manners than to leap from the TARDIS, clamp a hand about her wrist, and pull her in.
Only generally, though.
“The Doctor said you’d be along,” the girl said. “He’s run off doing his own thing, as usual, but he’ll be back. I was planning to go after him, but Rory thought we should probably wait to make sure we caught you.”
Rory waved at her awkwardly from behind the TARDIS’ console.
“I am... caught,” Martha agreed. “Have you got a situation? I work for UNIT, so I have a gun and access to back-up.” She paused. “Although since situations with the Doctor often get in the way of actually using the tools available, I should mention that I’m good at improvising.”
“Yeah?”
Martha nodded. “If I’ve got a job to do, I get it done. Did the Doctor say why he needed me?”
The redhead and Rory glanced at each other. “He didn’t say ‘needed’, exactly,” Rory said. “More that we happened to be going where Martha was and that we’d like you.”
“He said it in that way that means he already knows something big is going to happen, though,” the girl said. “Like when River says ‘spoilers’, except his voice is less sexy.”
“Amy!” Rory said. The girl - Amy, apparently - gave him a look and he shrugged, grinning ruefully. “Okay, I suppose her voice is sort of sexy. Unlike the Doctor’s.”
Martha remembered the Doctor’s voice as rather sexy: she liked intelligence, and the bright energy the Doctor exuded that made himself effortlessly the centre of the universe.
Amy flapped her hands at Rory, drawing Martha’s eyes back into focus. “Hmph. I liked his voice when he got Beeblebrox flu, though. All hoarse.”
“Only because you’re not a nurse. I’m the one who had to help fix him up. So much for ‘what happens at Eroticon stays at Eroticon.’”
Martha burst out laughing, and Amy and Rory turned to look at her again. “Sounds like Jack was a bad influence. So you’re a nurse, then?”
Rory nodded.
“Good, the TARDIS needs someone who’s good at that sort of thing,” she said. Rory smiled, bobbing his head in a way that reminded Martha of Mickey, and how even now he was sometimes unsure of his skills. “I was still a medical student when I travelled with the Doctor,” Martha continued. “Some of the best training you could ever have, although explaining that to my exam board took some doing.”
“So you’re a Doctor.” Amy said the word in the specific way the Doctor’s companions had: bright, and focused, making the word doctor the sparkling centrepiece of a sentence.
“Yes,” said Martha with a little laugh. “Not like the Doctor, but I am a doctor.”
“Cool,” Amy said, pulling herself onto onto the railing behind her in a long slide of bare leg. Martha swallowed, lifting her eyes to meet Amy’s hazel ones, and saw that Amy’s grin had become a particular sort of smile.
When she lifted her eyes again to meet Amy’s hazel ones, she saw that Amy’s grin had become a particular sort of smile. Amy lifted her left hand, fiddling with her hair, and Martha caught the flash of gold amongst the red.
“You’re married?” Martha asked, and pursed her lips.
“Me and him over there,” Amy replied, grinning without self-consciousness.
“We’re still newlyweds, really,” Rory put in. “Our honeymoon was on the TARDIS.”
Martha swallowed about a dozen filthy jokes, but couldn’t contain a smirk. Amy caught it and reflected it back at her, brighter and dirtier.
Martha was surprised. Amy didn’t seem like the type to be married already -- she looked so young, younger than Martha had been when she met the Doctor. And her vivaciousness rather reminded Martha of Jack when he was happy.
As did Amy’s cocked eyebrow and cocked hip as she slid off the railing again, her body rather close to Martha’s. Martha felt her body shifting in response, mirroring Amy’s. They were close enough that she could smell Amy’s hair, and see the hints of green in her eyes.
Mickey was currently in Wales trying to sort out the care and feeding of a pterodactyl, and before that Martha had been in Edinburgh explaining to the locals the difference between a Fringe performer and an alien. She hadn’t seen her husband for a couple of months. And they did have an arrangement for situations like this.
The situation had originally been based on Jack taking Mickey’s declaration of heterosexuality as a challenge, and Martha taking Jack’s declaration of sexual prowess as a challenge. But when you were alien-fighters, even if you had a strong marriage, taking bets with fifty-first century pansexuals was far from the only reason for a semi-open relationship.
Which, judging by their expressions, was probably not news to Amy and Rory.
“So who’s River?” Martha asked. Her tone suggested another question entirely.
“Friend of ours,” Amy said. “She’s an adventurer from the future. She has this weird history -- well, future -- with the Doctor.”
“And a sexy voice,” said Martha. “Sounds like someone else I know.” She remembered Jack’s blue eyes and Mickey’s blush. “I like adventurers from the future, you know. They tend to be... educational. Like when my friend Anne went to Berlin and stayed up for four days having orgies, only more so.”
Martha realised she was at risk of babbling and gave Amy a coy smile instead of speaking. You’d never think she’d saved the world by talking, sometimes.
“Rory?” Amy said, turning to look at him. “Remember when there was that weird paradox and I met myself?”
“Not sure ‘met’ is the right verb for it, but yes.”
“And you wouldn’t let us touch?”
“The Doctor said you couldn’t touch each other because it might make the universe explode!”
There was a little pause while Martha considered suggesting to the Doctor that he start selecting his companions based slightly more on self-control and slightly less on the willingness and ability to run a lot. Then Rory sighed. “Yes, I remember that. And before you ask, I remember saying I owed you a sexual favour as thanks for not blowing up the universe.”
“Great!” Amy said, turning back to Martha. “Then you won’t mind if I ask Martha to come and see my etchings.”
Martha grinned. She liked a girl who wasn’t afraid of innuendo. “Love to.”
Rory waved them off. Amy turned and rabbited off through the TARDIS’ main room, leaving Martha to follow her and her long legs across. They got down the corridor and into a bedroom -- Martha didn’t recognise it or its leopard-print double bed; apparently the Doctor had been redecorating without supervision again -- before hearing Rory.
“I’m not going to get to watch, am I?” Rory’s voice was slightly plaintive.
Amy turned to her, and Martha made a face. She rather liked the look of Rory, but for right now...
“Nope,” Amy carolled back.
“Oh. Okay.” Amy reached for Martha again, settling her hands on Martha’s hips. Martha felt the warmth of each finger separately; under her tight trousers, every nerve ending seemed to come alive.
“Amy?” came Rory’s voice again.
Amy sighed, but the affectionate smile on her face remained. She kept eye contact with Martha as she called back, “yes?” and Martha giggled with her, feeling like they had some shared secret.
“You still love me the best, don’t you? Even though she’s a doctor and very pretty?”
“She hasn’t got a stupid face,” Amy called. As she said the words, her face softened in a particular way that made Martha take her earlier thought back. Amy looked like the marrying sort after all.
Then Amy kissed her and that first sparking taste of her made Martha’s thoughts go up in smoke like a light with its fuse blown out. There was a particular taste that was specific to a time-traveller, and it was strong and fresh in Amy. Martha opened her mouth, seeking more of that taste, already making plans to find where on Amy’s body it was strongest.
They kissed for a long time. It felt like talking, this learning of each other’s styles and taste and smell. The thrill of kissing someone from the TARDIS had excitement bubbling in Martha’s stomach: but the shape of Amy’s body as she slowly pressed up against Martha, the greed of Amy’s mouth, her hands massaging Martha’s hips -- those thrills were stronger.
Martha drew back, panting a little, drawing breath like she was a fire needing air to stay alight. “Wow. You’re a really good kisser.”
“I used to be a kissogram,” said Amy.
Martha stared, then burst out laughing. Amy laughed too, and grabbed Martha’s wrist again. They fell in fits of giggles to the bed. Martha rolled on top of Amy, smothering her laughter with her mouth, and finally, fucking finally, put one hand on Amy’s bare thigh and slid it up under her skirt.
Amy’s breath hitched in her throat, and she let out a low moan before sliding her fingers under Martha’s waistband in reply. Martha shivered at the play of Amy’s fingers along the sensitive skin of her lower back. She teased her fingers lightly between Amy’s inner thighs in response. Amy’s eyes, inches from hers, narrowed in competition as she bit down on Martha’s lower lip.
Martha moaned into Amy’s slick mouth. They sank easily into kissing again. Martha shifted, wanting a different angle, but Amy slid a hand into her hair, holding the back of her neck to keep her close. She was warm, and shivered against Martha as Martha pushed aside her wet knickers with one hand. Martha teased a finger along the length of Amy’s lips before finding her clit.
Amy groaned, her back snapping up into a gorgeous arch, her eyes shutting blissfully as Martha teased her clit. Her thighs tightened, holding Martha’s hand inescapably against her. Amy ground against her, moaning. She was still dressed, and that made it even sexier to watch her come undone. Martha used the other hand to push Amy’s hair out of her face, so she could watch her expression as Amy’s face tightened and sweat slicked her forehead and she came, half-screaming, clutching at Martha’s shoulders.
Amy sprawled for a moment, panting; but only a moment, and then she sat up again, despite the half-dazed grin on her flushed face. “All right, come on! It’s kind of hot doing it half-dressed but I wanna see you naked.”
“Same.” Martha was so turned on by now that even the wriggling necessary to get out of her tight trousers, knickers and boots sparked pleasure. Amy was already bare from the waist down, her long pale legs seeming to take up half the bed. Amy scrambled out of her plaid shirt and top like a child, wriggling out of them with far more energy than was necessary. Her bright blue bra was gone in an instant.
“Come on!” Amy said. “I’ve been staring too - you’ve got a killer arse - but come on!”
Good thing I don’t mind being bossed about, Martha thought half-ruefully -- though she thought she’d probably get her domme side out next time she saw Mickey - and shed her jacket and top.
Amy’s eyes went big at the sight of her burgundy lace, and she reached out. Martha let Amy free her breasts; she shivered as Amy’s fingers passed over her bare shoulders down to her breasts, rubbing her thumbs curiously over them. Martha’s dark nipples were already hard.
Amy’s mouth followed her fingers, and Martha moaned helplessly as Amy sucked on a nipple; it was glorious, that indulgent sexual touch. She tangled her fingers in Amy’s hair, her thumb sliding down Amy’s neck, feeling Amy’s jaw work as she lapped and sucked at Martha’s skin. Martha shuddered against her, caught between the ache between her legs and Amy’s mouth on her, and the soft skin at the nape of Amy’s neck.
Then Amy slid her hands down to Martha’s waist. Just that touch made Martha shiver, and she bonelessly moved with Amy’s tug, sliding onto the bed on her back. She spread her legs, demanding. Martha felt the cool air of the room against her cunt for only a moment before Amy’s head was between her legs and her tongue was jangling every nerve ending Martha had.
Amy’s hands were tight on her thighs -- Martha would have fingerprint bruises there come morning -- and her mouth was fervent. Martha’s body wound tighter and tighter as Amy sucked her clit and, oh, god, those were Amy’s fingers fucking into her again and again. She felt stretched and sensitive and half-overcome with sensation. Her heart was pounding in her chest, heat spreading through her whole body - fuck, Amy’s tongue - and then the spring released. Martha came in a long screaming rush, to be left panting and liquid against the sheets.
Amy pulled back, and moved instantly to straddle Martha’s hips. Martha smiled at her, stretching her arms lazily over her head, feeling her breasts bob as she sighed in satisfaction. Their eyes connected, and electricity shivered down Martha’s spine.
Martha remembered travelling the world alone, telling stories to drive back the dark, and taking comfort where she could find it. The world they’d brought back to life was infinitely brighter, but it couldn’t have taught her to revel in these glowing moments this way.
Amy’s hot cunt was slick against her. Sitting on top of Martha, visibly taking in every detail of her, Amy looked like a pirate examining her treasure: shamelessly happy to have got away with taking it.
For Martha, the rest of the day became only snapshots: bright flashes of sensation and sight. Running her fingers through the neat ginger triangle between Amy’s legs; stroking the soft skin of Amy’s stomach as they rocked and rubbed together and came against each other’s thighs; the gleaming intensity of Amy’s eyes as she held Martha’s wrists against the mattress and ground against her until she came. Experimenting: spanking Amy, while she wriggled and squealed, until finally Martha had a lap-full of sweat-slick skin and frizzed red hair and that fucking gorgeous mouth and Amy was falling apart under her firm strokes.
Eventually they ran out of energy, and ended up sprawled on their backs together, staring at the rather aesthetically-pleasing moss on the ceiling and waiting to get their breath back. Martha remembered lying next to the Doctor on a bed once, and bit back a grin. This was better.
“I wonder if this is why the Doctor said you were coming and we’d like you,” Amy said, smiling.
Martha turned her head enough that she could see her. Amy was still flushed, in that blotchy way that redheads had, and her lips were swollen where Martha had worked them over and over again with her mouth and teeth.
“Maybe. He’s not usually a one for matchmaking though, is he?”
“Not really,” said Amy. “He gave me and Rory bunk-beds.”
Martha cackled. “Just because he doesn’t need a bed to get down and dirty under the TARDIS, his one true love.”
Amy spluttered a laugh. “You’ve no idea. A few weeks ago...”
Martha rearranged herself against the bed, and settled in to hear Amy tell her a bedtime story.
Word count: ~2700
Characters/pairings: Amy/Martha (background Martha/Mickey and Amy/Rory)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Amy is a twenty-first century girl. Martha thinks Jack has possibly been a bad influence. Set during New Who S6.
Warnings: Semi-open relationships
Disclaimer: The boys and girls belong to the BBC, even though I’m often much nicer to them than they are.
Author’s Notes: This is a cleaned-up version of the fic I wrote for eruthros for femslash11. All my thanks to teenageworrier for the super-speedy beta and to anna_unfolding for the marvellously thorough one.
Martha Jones had not expected to return to the TARDIS with a Scottish redhead dragging her into it. The Doctor had never yet been ginger, after all, and he generally had better manners than to leap from the TARDIS, clamp a hand about her wrist, and pull her in.
Only generally, though.
“The Doctor said you’d be along,” the girl said. “He’s run off doing his own thing, as usual, but he’ll be back. I was planning to go after him, but Rory thought we should probably wait to make sure we caught you.”
Rory waved at her awkwardly from behind the TARDIS’ console.
“I am... caught,” Martha agreed. “Have you got a situation? I work for UNIT, so I have a gun and access to back-up.” She paused. “Although since situations with the Doctor often get in the way of actually using the tools available, I should mention that I’m good at improvising.”
“Yeah?”
Martha nodded. “If I’ve got a job to do, I get it done. Did the Doctor say why he needed me?”
The redhead and Rory glanced at each other. “He didn’t say ‘needed’, exactly,” Rory said. “More that we happened to be going where Martha was and that we’d like you.”
“He said it in that way that means he already knows something big is going to happen, though,” the girl said. “Like when River says ‘spoilers’, except his voice is less sexy.”
“Amy!” Rory said. The girl - Amy, apparently - gave him a look and he shrugged, grinning ruefully. “Okay, I suppose her voice is sort of sexy. Unlike the Doctor’s.”
Martha remembered the Doctor’s voice as rather sexy: she liked intelligence, and the bright energy the Doctor exuded that made himself effortlessly the centre of the universe.
Amy flapped her hands at Rory, drawing Martha’s eyes back into focus. “Hmph. I liked his voice when he got Beeblebrox flu, though. All hoarse.”
“Only because you’re not a nurse. I’m the one who had to help fix him up. So much for ‘what happens at Eroticon stays at Eroticon.’”
Martha burst out laughing, and Amy and Rory turned to look at her again. “Sounds like Jack was a bad influence. So you’re a nurse, then?”
Rory nodded.
“Good, the TARDIS needs someone who’s good at that sort of thing,” she said. Rory smiled, bobbing his head in a way that reminded Martha of Mickey, and how even now he was sometimes unsure of his skills. “I was still a medical student when I travelled with the Doctor,” Martha continued. “Some of the best training you could ever have, although explaining that to my exam board took some doing.”
“So you’re a Doctor.” Amy said the word in the specific way the Doctor’s companions had: bright, and focused, making the word doctor the sparkling centrepiece of a sentence.
“Yes,” said Martha with a little laugh. “Not like the Doctor, but I am a doctor.”
“Cool,” Amy said, pulling herself onto onto the railing behind her in a long slide of bare leg. Martha swallowed, lifting her eyes to meet Amy’s hazel ones, and saw that Amy’s grin had become a particular sort of smile.
When she lifted her eyes again to meet Amy’s hazel ones, she saw that Amy’s grin had become a particular sort of smile. Amy lifted her left hand, fiddling with her hair, and Martha caught the flash of gold amongst the red.
“You’re married?” Martha asked, and pursed her lips.
“Me and him over there,” Amy replied, grinning without self-consciousness.
“We’re still newlyweds, really,” Rory put in. “Our honeymoon was on the TARDIS.”
Martha swallowed about a dozen filthy jokes, but couldn’t contain a smirk. Amy caught it and reflected it back at her, brighter and dirtier.
Martha was surprised. Amy didn’t seem like the type to be married already -- she looked so young, younger than Martha had been when she met the Doctor. And her vivaciousness rather reminded Martha of Jack when he was happy.
As did Amy’s cocked eyebrow and cocked hip as she slid off the railing again, her body rather close to Martha’s. Martha felt her body shifting in response, mirroring Amy’s. They were close enough that she could smell Amy’s hair, and see the hints of green in her eyes.
Mickey was currently in Wales trying to sort out the care and feeding of a pterodactyl, and before that Martha had been in Edinburgh explaining to the locals the difference between a Fringe performer and an alien. She hadn’t seen her husband for a couple of months. And they did have an arrangement for situations like this.
The situation had originally been based on Jack taking Mickey’s declaration of heterosexuality as a challenge, and Martha taking Jack’s declaration of sexual prowess as a challenge. But when you were alien-fighters, even if you had a strong marriage, taking bets with fifty-first century pansexuals was far from the only reason for a semi-open relationship.
Which, judging by their expressions, was probably not news to Amy and Rory.
“So who’s River?” Martha asked. Her tone suggested another question entirely.
“Friend of ours,” Amy said. “She’s an adventurer from the future. She has this weird history -- well, future -- with the Doctor.”
“And a sexy voice,” said Martha. “Sounds like someone else I know.” She remembered Jack’s blue eyes and Mickey’s blush. “I like adventurers from the future, you know. They tend to be... educational. Like when my friend Anne went to Berlin and stayed up for four days having orgies, only more so.”
Martha realised she was at risk of babbling and gave Amy a coy smile instead of speaking. You’d never think she’d saved the world by talking, sometimes.
“Rory?” Amy said, turning to look at him. “Remember when there was that weird paradox and I met myself?”
“Not sure ‘met’ is the right verb for it, but yes.”
“And you wouldn’t let us touch?”
“The Doctor said you couldn’t touch each other because it might make the universe explode!”
There was a little pause while Martha considered suggesting to the Doctor that he start selecting his companions based slightly more on self-control and slightly less on the willingness and ability to run a lot. Then Rory sighed. “Yes, I remember that. And before you ask, I remember saying I owed you a sexual favour as thanks for not blowing up the universe.”
“Great!” Amy said, turning back to Martha. “Then you won’t mind if I ask Martha to come and see my etchings.”
Martha grinned. She liked a girl who wasn’t afraid of innuendo. “Love to.”
Rory waved them off. Amy turned and rabbited off through the TARDIS’ main room, leaving Martha to follow her and her long legs across. They got down the corridor and into a bedroom -- Martha didn’t recognise it or its leopard-print double bed; apparently the Doctor had been redecorating without supervision again -- before hearing Rory.
“I’m not going to get to watch, am I?” Rory’s voice was slightly plaintive.
Amy turned to her, and Martha made a face. She rather liked the look of Rory, but for right now...
“Nope,” Amy carolled back.
“Oh. Okay.” Amy reached for Martha again, settling her hands on Martha’s hips. Martha felt the warmth of each finger separately; under her tight trousers, every nerve ending seemed to come alive.
“Amy?” came Rory’s voice again.
Amy sighed, but the affectionate smile on her face remained. She kept eye contact with Martha as she called back, “yes?” and Martha giggled with her, feeling like they had some shared secret.
“You still love me the best, don’t you? Even though she’s a doctor and very pretty?”
“She hasn’t got a stupid face,” Amy called. As she said the words, her face softened in a particular way that made Martha take her earlier thought back. Amy looked like the marrying sort after all.
Then Amy kissed her and that first sparking taste of her made Martha’s thoughts go up in smoke like a light with its fuse blown out. There was a particular taste that was specific to a time-traveller, and it was strong and fresh in Amy. Martha opened her mouth, seeking more of that taste, already making plans to find where on Amy’s body it was strongest.
They kissed for a long time. It felt like talking, this learning of each other’s styles and taste and smell. The thrill of kissing someone from the TARDIS had excitement bubbling in Martha’s stomach: but the shape of Amy’s body as she slowly pressed up against Martha, the greed of Amy’s mouth, her hands massaging Martha’s hips -- those thrills were stronger.
Martha drew back, panting a little, drawing breath like she was a fire needing air to stay alight. “Wow. You’re a really good kisser.”
“I used to be a kissogram,” said Amy.
Martha stared, then burst out laughing. Amy laughed too, and grabbed Martha’s wrist again. They fell in fits of giggles to the bed. Martha rolled on top of Amy, smothering her laughter with her mouth, and finally, fucking finally, put one hand on Amy’s bare thigh and slid it up under her skirt.
Amy’s breath hitched in her throat, and she let out a low moan before sliding her fingers under Martha’s waistband in reply. Martha shivered at the play of Amy’s fingers along the sensitive skin of her lower back. She teased her fingers lightly between Amy’s inner thighs in response. Amy’s eyes, inches from hers, narrowed in competition as she bit down on Martha’s lower lip.
Martha moaned into Amy’s slick mouth. They sank easily into kissing again. Martha shifted, wanting a different angle, but Amy slid a hand into her hair, holding the back of her neck to keep her close. She was warm, and shivered against Martha as Martha pushed aside her wet knickers with one hand. Martha teased a finger along the length of Amy’s lips before finding her clit.
Amy groaned, her back snapping up into a gorgeous arch, her eyes shutting blissfully as Martha teased her clit. Her thighs tightened, holding Martha’s hand inescapably against her. Amy ground against her, moaning. She was still dressed, and that made it even sexier to watch her come undone. Martha used the other hand to push Amy’s hair out of her face, so she could watch her expression as Amy’s face tightened and sweat slicked her forehead and she came, half-screaming, clutching at Martha’s shoulders.
Amy sprawled for a moment, panting; but only a moment, and then she sat up again, despite the half-dazed grin on her flushed face. “All right, come on! It’s kind of hot doing it half-dressed but I wanna see you naked.”
“Same.” Martha was so turned on by now that even the wriggling necessary to get out of her tight trousers, knickers and boots sparked pleasure. Amy was already bare from the waist down, her long pale legs seeming to take up half the bed. Amy scrambled out of her plaid shirt and top like a child, wriggling out of them with far more energy than was necessary. Her bright blue bra was gone in an instant.
“Come on!” Amy said. “I’ve been staring too - you’ve got a killer arse - but come on!”
Good thing I don’t mind being bossed about, Martha thought half-ruefully -- though she thought she’d probably get her domme side out next time she saw Mickey - and shed her jacket and top.
Amy’s eyes went big at the sight of her burgundy lace, and she reached out. Martha let Amy free her breasts; she shivered as Amy’s fingers passed over her bare shoulders down to her breasts, rubbing her thumbs curiously over them. Martha’s dark nipples were already hard.
Amy’s mouth followed her fingers, and Martha moaned helplessly as Amy sucked on a nipple; it was glorious, that indulgent sexual touch. She tangled her fingers in Amy’s hair, her thumb sliding down Amy’s neck, feeling Amy’s jaw work as she lapped and sucked at Martha’s skin. Martha shuddered against her, caught between the ache between her legs and Amy’s mouth on her, and the soft skin at the nape of Amy’s neck.
Then Amy slid her hands down to Martha’s waist. Just that touch made Martha shiver, and she bonelessly moved with Amy’s tug, sliding onto the bed on her back. She spread her legs, demanding. Martha felt the cool air of the room against her cunt for only a moment before Amy’s head was between her legs and her tongue was jangling every nerve ending Martha had.
Amy’s hands were tight on her thighs -- Martha would have fingerprint bruises there come morning -- and her mouth was fervent. Martha’s body wound tighter and tighter as Amy sucked her clit and, oh, god, those were Amy’s fingers fucking into her again and again. She felt stretched and sensitive and half-overcome with sensation. Her heart was pounding in her chest, heat spreading through her whole body - fuck, Amy’s tongue - and then the spring released. Martha came in a long screaming rush, to be left panting and liquid against the sheets.
Amy pulled back, and moved instantly to straddle Martha’s hips. Martha smiled at her, stretching her arms lazily over her head, feeling her breasts bob as she sighed in satisfaction. Their eyes connected, and electricity shivered down Martha’s spine.
Martha remembered travelling the world alone, telling stories to drive back the dark, and taking comfort where she could find it. The world they’d brought back to life was infinitely brighter, but it couldn’t have taught her to revel in these glowing moments this way.
Amy’s hot cunt was slick against her. Sitting on top of Martha, visibly taking in every detail of her, Amy looked like a pirate examining her treasure: shamelessly happy to have got away with taking it.
For Martha, the rest of the day became only snapshots: bright flashes of sensation and sight. Running her fingers through the neat ginger triangle between Amy’s legs; stroking the soft skin of Amy’s stomach as they rocked and rubbed together and came against each other’s thighs; the gleaming intensity of Amy’s eyes as she held Martha’s wrists against the mattress and ground against her until she came. Experimenting: spanking Amy, while she wriggled and squealed, until finally Martha had a lap-full of sweat-slick skin and frizzed red hair and that fucking gorgeous mouth and Amy was falling apart under her firm strokes.
Eventually they ran out of energy, and ended up sprawled on their backs together, staring at the rather aesthetically-pleasing moss on the ceiling and waiting to get their breath back. Martha remembered lying next to the Doctor on a bed once, and bit back a grin. This was better.
“I wonder if this is why the Doctor said you were coming and we’d like you,” Amy said, smiling.
Martha turned her head enough that she could see her. Amy was still flushed, in that blotchy way that redheads had, and her lips were swollen where Martha had worked them over and over again with her mouth and teeth.
“Maybe. He’s not usually a one for matchmaking though, is he?”
“Not really,” said Amy. “He gave me and Rory bunk-beds.”
Martha cackled. “Just because he doesn’t need a bed to get down and dirty under the TARDIS, his one true love.”
Amy spluttered a laugh. “You’ve no idea. A few weeks ago...”
Martha rearranged herself against the bed, and settled in to hear Amy tell her a bedtime story.