April hasn't done much with the journal she has tucked in the strap that held Julian's Kimber in place at the small of her back when she arrived. ( ... )
April... doesn't know what to say. She knows it's true, what he's saying. There's too much truth to it, in his voice, in his head. She believes him. She hears what he's not saying, she wants to give him something to hold on to, something real. Something comforting.
She's not going to try to comfort him the way she'd comfort Alanna or Ryan or... hell, even Sark. Too much in his head, and she doesn't think he'd take well to that. And words... words are just words, and she's not very good with them right now anyway.
So she goes with what she knows. What she learned from months with Kara, the only thing she can think of right now, with her head all twisted 'round and crumbling.
She gets up on her tiptoes, balancing with her free hand, and kisses him.
It's chaste, all things considered. It's not a peck, and it's not quite sisterly, but... sex with Kara wasn't sexual, somehow, it was just communication. Connection. She's innocent, virginal, and she's just trying to "talk" to Thane the way she talked to Kara.
When he kisses back it's hard, all that want, anger, hunger there in his lips against hers, his hand tightening at the side of her neck, his hand going to hold her at the hip, an oh, her breath on his face and her body so small next to his and he could have taken this at any point, but she's gone and offered.
A second after, he reigns himself in, gentling the pressures without releasing them. The chorus of YesYesYes still screams through his mind, but he pushes it away - this is control. Control this and you control the body and the heart both at once. This is intimacy as an expression of power, and he's as hungry for that as he is for anything.
And it's almost. Almost perfect. With a skill so ingrained it's almost careless, he lets his fingers trace the line of her neck, searching out the sensitive spots, feeling with his whole body where and how she reacts. His other hand goes up to press against the dart again, holding it steady. Give me enough of yourself and I can make you enjoy even this,
( ... )
It doesn't take April half a second of Thane returning the kiss to realise that this is so very different from what it felt like to kiss Kara. Not because, obviously, he's not Kara, but because there's something different in it. Different wants, different assumptions, different views on sex.
This is not communication. Not how she's used to. This is hunger and animalistic need and...
This is sexual, in a way Kara's kisses and caresses never were. April doesn't know what's different, all she knows is that it is. And she doesn't know what to do. So she lets it continue, shivering as his fingers brush her neck, his hand presses against her chest.
He pulls away, just long enough to whisper "Trust me." It's not trust, and he should know it - this is built on a scaffold of fear, and there was a time he knew the difference. I know the human body. I can make you feel - anything.
Bundles of nerves and muscles and glands. He's precise but not careful as he seeks them out, caress here or sharp pressure there, backing her against the wall so her entire body is held pinned by his.
There's a way to approach sex like torture. Reduce the body to its mechanical parts, play it like an instrument. He takes one of the straps of the sundress between his teeth, letting his breath ghost down her chest, recording every tremor.
"I can make this good," he growls, but softly. It's an offer, and as much of one as she'll have. Or I can make this hurt in ways you never imagined. His teeth slip down to her skin.
This is different. This is different and uncomfortable and frightening, nothing at all like being with Kara, who was soft and safe and comforting. He can make this good, he says, with the promise of making it worse if she doesn't take his offer
( ... )
It's an old, instinctive gesture of submission, that, and he responds to that. Oh, he can make it good, if "good" only means the right sensations in the right sequences and a willingness not to hurt more than is necessary. Even within this ruthless framework he's capable of being gentle, and this submissiveness is something he wants to encourage.
Beneath that, low and hidden but present in everything he does, the want/need/pain is welling up to engulf April and drag her into his life. He doesn't look for friends or lovers but ways to possess people, and she, this little weapon, the person who looked into his mind and either fell for it or understood, she can be possessed in a way that Hart could only pine for
( ... )
April tries very hard to lose herself, let her mind wander off too far like it does sometimes. She reaches out as far as she can, trying to latch on to something, someone...
But every time she tries, she gets pulled back by hands, lips, kisses, caresses. And with every touch, a little bit of her carefully-constructed mental structure fractures. Crumbles. She's a broken girl already, and now he's breaking her more to his own desires and parameters.
By the time it's over, and she's left trembling against him, she feels like there's nothing left of her. It's all been shattered, and she's left standing barefoot among the mirror-shards of her mind.
Again.
And she can't think of anything to say. She's cold, and frightened, and he's the only person near her, so she presses her hand over his heart to feel his heartbeat and tries not to cry.
The first word that crosses his mind is PerfectHe guides her head down, pressing her ear against his chest, running his fingers through her hair. He's still mostly clothed - another indication of power, though one more specific to this century than most - and he eases his coat off, wrapping it around her shoulders. He hasn't worn it quite long enough for it to smell like him, and the smooth lining or the leather's weight aren't the warmest of things, but it's a gesture. It's possible even he wouldn't know of what the gesture was, but he's been running on one set of instincts or another for a long time and he's not about to stop now
( ... )
April tugs the coat around her, practically swimming in it. At least she's small, easily covered. She's never been particularly shy about skin - it's just skin, isn't it? - but right now, she wants to cover up. Wants to hide.
She curls in, looking down at the floor and rubbing her left wrist gingerly - it's raw, scabbed over or bleeding a tiny bit in a couple places. Just like the right one.
"I... I thank you for... It was very... for taking the handcuffs off."
Coherency is not going to be April's strong suit for... quite a while.
Thane smiles, ruffling her hair, then scooping her up and tucking the coat in around her. She's light, compared to most of his marks. Not hard to carry, especially with her all curled up like that.
He crosses to the Doctor with deliberate dignity, depositing April on the ground by his feet and letting slack back into the Doctor's bonds before he steps back, out of physical range. Looks into his eyes for a few stretched seconds. He's no stranger to hate, anger, pain - they're his companions more than warm flesh, most days.
Before the Doctor can say anything he turns away, heading for the back room and humming a tune deep in his throat. For Thane and few others, it has been a very good evening.
The Doctor stares after him for a moment, raw hatred in his eyes, and then turns his attention to April, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around her without hesitation. "It's alright," he says gently, pulling her in toward him, his mouth close to her ear. "I'm here. It's alright." All the doors in his mind are locked tight, and he's being very careful not to look into April's mind just now. He doesn't want to know what he'll see.
April, when Thane first sets her down, is a bit... frightened. Not of anything rational, really, but frightened that the Doctor won't want her. That he'll pull away and leave her curled on the floor, alone and cold.
Thankfully, the Doctor fixes that fear almost immediately, and she gasps a little - not from pain, not physically, but... something. She's startled by the contact, and doesn't move for a moment, but once it sinks in, she's clutching to his shirt, hardly caring about the jacket, not noticing that it starts slipping off. She doesn't care.
She's not going to try to comfort him the way she'd comfort Alanna or Ryan or... hell, even Sark. Too much in his head, and she doesn't think he'd take well to that. And words... words are just words, and she's not very good with them right now anyway.
So she goes with what she knows. What she learned from months with Kara, the only thing she can think of right now, with her head all twisted 'round and crumbling.
She gets up on her tiptoes, balancing with her free hand, and kisses him.
It's chaste, all things considered. It's not a peck, and it's not quite sisterly, but... sex with Kara wasn't sexual, somehow, it was just communication. Connection. She's innocent, virginal, and she's just trying to "talk" to Thane the way she talked to Kara.
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When he kisses back it's hard, all that want, anger, hunger there in his lips against hers, his hand tightening at the side of her neck, his hand going to hold her at the hip, an oh, her breath on his face and her body so small next to his and he could have taken this at any point, but she's gone and offered.
A second after, he reigns himself in, gentling the pressures without releasing them. The chorus of YesYesYes still screams through his mind, but he pushes it away - this is control. Control this and you control the body and the heart both at once. This is intimacy as an expression of power, and he's as hungry for that as he is for anything.
And it's almost. Almost perfect. With a skill so ingrained it's almost careless, he lets his fingers trace the line of her neck, searching out the sensitive spots, feeling with his whole body where and how she reacts. His other hand goes up to press against the dart again, holding it steady. Give me enough of yourself and I can make you enjoy even this, ( ... )
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This is not communication. Not how she's used to. This is hunger and animalistic need and...
This is sexual, in a way Kara's kisses and caresses never were. April doesn't know what's different, all she knows is that it is. And she doesn't know what to do. So she lets it continue, shivering as his fingers brush her neck, his hand presses against her chest.
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Bundles of nerves and muscles and glands. He's precise but not careful as he seeks them out, caress here or sharp pressure there, backing her against the wall so her entire body is held pinned by his.
There's a way to approach sex like torture. Reduce the body to its mechanical parts, play it like an instrument. He takes one of the straps of the sundress between his teeth, letting his breath ghost down her chest, recording every tremor.
"I can make this good," he growls, but softly. It's an offer, and as much of one as she'll have. Or I can make this hurt in ways you never imagined. His teeth slip down to her skin.
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Yes.
It's an old, instinctive gesture of submission, that, and he responds to that. Oh, he can make it good, if "good" only means the right sensations in the right sequences and a willingness not to hurt more than is necessary. Even within this ruthless framework he's capable of being gentle, and this submissiveness is something he wants to encourage.
Beneath that, low and hidden but present in everything he does, the want/need/pain is welling up to engulf April and drag her into his life. He doesn't look for friends or lovers but ways to possess people, and she, this little weapon, the person who looked into his mind and either fell for it or understood, she can be possessed in a way that Hart could only pine for ( ... )
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But every time she tries, she gets pulled back by hands, lips, kisses, caresses. And with every touch, a little bit of her carefully-constructed mental structure fractures. Crumbles. She's a broken girl already, and now he's breaking her more to his own desires and parameters.
By the time it's over, and she's left trembling against him, she feels like there's nothing left of her. It's all been shattered, and she's left standing barefoot among the mirror-shards of her mind.
Again.
And she can't think of anything to say. She's cold, and frightened, and he's the only person near her, so she presses her hand over his heart to feel his heartbeat and tries not to cry.
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She curls in, looking down at the floor and rubbing her left wrist gingerly - it's raw, scabbed over or bleeding a tiny bit in a couple places. Just like the right one.
"I... I thank you for... It was very... for taking the handcuffs off."
Coherency is not going to be April's strong suit for... quite a while.
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He crosses to the Doctor with deliberate dignity, depositing April on the ground by his feet and letting slack back into the Doctor's bonds before he steps back, out of physical range. Looks into his eyes for a few stretched seconds. He's no stranger to hate, anger, pain - they're his companions more than warm flesh, most days.
Before the Doctor can say anything he turns away, heading for the back room and humming a tune deep in his throat. For Thane and few others, it has been a very good evening.
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Thankfully, the Doctor fixes that fear almost immediately, and she gasps a little - not from pain, not physically, but... something. She's startled by the contact, and doesn't move for a moment, but once it sinks in, she's clutching to his shirt, hardly caring about the jacket, not noticing that it starts slipping off. She doesn't care.
She just wants to be held by someone safe.
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