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Pairing: Ten/Martha
Setting: AU, post S4
Story Rating:R?
Table Prompt: 017 Blue
A/N: These stories will be, in the main, unbeta'd. Beta-ish comments welcomed if you feel so inclined.
Index Post & Table
Blue
Blue is a colour. Blue is a mood. Blue is an emotion.
Blue is in another universe. Blue is now rose-red.
He is surprised sometimes when he finds Martha naked next to him. He wonders how they came to this. What had altered in him to make this possible?
These are the Doctor’s thoughts as he sits on Francine’s couch, as he watches the strained ease of the conversation between Martha and her mother. Blue is the colour of faithfulness.
The marmalade is sticky and sweet and tangy. He is thankful that Martha has given him the jar, but he’s a bit embarrassed to be sitting there, with Francine watching, as he indulges in the sensual pleasure of eating it unmediated.
Blue is worlds away. His new slate suit (with dove grey pinstripes for subtle contrast) suits his mood better these days. He’s glad the old suit is gone, that it’s with her now, there, having adventures and short-lived futures and able to be faithful to that love and that time. For once he gets to keep a companion until he dies.
Blue is the mood of sorrow. He sees the hurt in Francine’s eyes—she knows Martha’s silence has been longer than the day—and he knows that mood too well.
Blue is the colour of the veins beneath Martha’s skin. The memory of his tongue running along that pulse of life while she lay beneath him and her reciprocation while he lay beneath her, the two of them exploring the complex webs of alien circulatory systems through the lenses of skin and tongue, nearly overwhelms him. He dips his fingers in the jar and shows Martha how hungry he is for her, so tangy sweet. He brings out the red in her cheeks when he walks past and brushes her shoulder with the fingers that reached into the jar, that carried the sticky sweetness to his lips, the same fingers that will dip into her very soon to sample, to taste, to feast.
Blue is the complement of yellow. They are leaving and he takes the coward’s way out. He knows that Francine knows that he can’t really promise anything where Martha’s safety is concerned; he plays the game with her. He doesn’t speak—near yet not yellow—but his silence is complementary all the same.
Blue occupies the wavelengths four hundred forty to four hundred ninety nanometers. Blue is the electronic spectrum of aqua-ions Cu(H2O)52+. He recites elementary facts about colour spectra while Martha tortures him. Her back is to him as she rides him, her body shielding her hand’s activities from his view, but he can smell the sweet and sticky marmalade she is licking and sucking from her fingers. She won’t share (“Haven’t you had your fill for the day?” she’d asked when he'd pleaded with her.) and he’s thinking how unfair and how greedy she is, how insistent her mouth and her body are in their pursuit of the sweet and tangy. He is trying to deny her any other treats.
Colour spectra seemed safe enough, but he’s back to the colour of red now (red occupies the wavelengths six hundred twenty-five to seven hundred forty), and she’s blushing and flushed and deep crimson, like the marmalade, like the leather on her favorite (and his, if he’s a bit less complementary of yellow) jacket. With effort he manages to shift the fulcrum of their coupling, pushing her forward, and he captures the treat. He plunges his fingers between their bodies, then into the nearly empty jar. She is whimpering—he’s no longer moving inside her, a small punishment—and she turns her head, pleading with him now. He bends over her, licking a trail across her shoulder to her neck. He teases her lips with his again-sticky fingers, and as she sucks at them hungrily, he begins to move inside her again and again. She’s pulling it from him, extracting and refracting his orgasm through the prism of her body. Blue is now a storm and rain and water. Blue is the sky and space and oceans of time—all the time in the world—flowing between and through them.
They lie together, the jar empty, their bodies spent.
Blue darkens and flattens to become slate grey.
He is surprised sometimes when he finds Martha naked next to him. He wonders how they came to this. What had altered in him to make this possible?
Blue is in another universe. Blue is rose-red.
Light passes through prisms and splits out the colours of the rainbow. Shadings. Refraction. Perspectives.
He kisses her as she drifts to sleep, their lips still sticky with the altered marmalade. Colour theory can wait until the morning.
Chronological: To 005: Outsides
Vertical: To 021: Friends
Setting: AU, post S4
Story Rating:R?
Table Prompt: 017 Blue
A/N: These stories will be, in the main, unbeta'd. Beta-ish comments welcomed if you feel so inclined.
Index Post & Table
Blue
Blue is a colour. Blue is a mood. Blue is an emotion.
Blue is in another universe. Blue is now rose-red.
He is surprised sometimes when he finds Martha naked next to him. He wonders how they came to this. What had altered in him to make this possible?
These are the Doctor’s thoughts as he sits on Francine’s couch, as he watches the strained ease of the conversation between Martha and her mother. Blue is the colour of faithfulness.
The marmalade is sticky and sweet and tangy. He is thankful that Martha has given him the jar, but he’s a bit embarrassed to be sitting there, with Francine watching, as he indulges in the sensual pleasure of eating it unmediated.
Blue is worlds away. His new slate suit (with dove grey pinstripes for subtle contrast) suits his mood better these days. He’s glad the old suit is gone, that it’s with her now, there, having adventures and short-lived futures and able to be faithful to that love and that time. For once he gets to keep a companion until he dies.
Blue is the mood of sorrow. He sees the hurt in Francine’s eyes—she knows Martha’s silence has been longer than the day—and he knows that mood too well.
Blue is the colour of the veins beneath Martha’s skin. The memory of his tongue running along that pulse of life while she lay beneath him and her reciprocation while he lay beneath her, the two of them exploring the complex webs of alien circulatory systems through the lenses of skin and tongue, nearly overwhelms him. He dips his fingers in the jar and shows Martha how hungry he is for her, so tangy sweet. He brings out the red in her cheeks when he walks past and brushes her shoulder with the fingers that reached into the jar, that carried the sticky sweetness to his lips, the same fingers that will dip into her very soon to sample, to taste, to feast.
Blue is the complement of yellow. They are leaving and he takes the coward’s way out. He knows that Francine knows that he can’t really promise anything where Martha’s safety is concerned; he plays the game with her. He doesn’t speak—near yet not yellow—but his silence is complementary all the same.
Blue occupies the wavelengths four hundred forty to four hundred ninety nanometers. Blue is the electronic spectrum of aqua-ions Cu(H2O)52+. He recites elementary facts about colour spectra while Martha tortures him. Her back is to him as she rides him, her body shielding her hand’s activities from his view, but he can smell the sweet and sticky marmalade she is licking and sucking from her fingers. She won’t share (“Haven’t you had your fill for the day?” she’d asked when he'd pleaded with her.) and he’s thinking how unfair and how greedy she is, how insistent her mouth and her body are in their pursuit of the sweet and tangy. He is trying to deny her any other treats.
Colour spectra seemed safe enough, but he’s back to the colour of red now (red occupies the wavelengths six hundred twenty-five to seven hundred forty), and she’s blushing and flushed and deep crimson, like the marmalade, like the leather on her favorite (and his, if he’s a bit less complementary of yellow) jacket. With effort he manages to shift the fulcrum of their coupling, pushing her forward, and he captures the treat. He plunges his fingers between their bodies, then into the nearly empty jar. She is whimpering—he’s no longer moving inside her, a small punishment—and she turns her head, pleading with him now. He bends over her, licking a trail across her shoulder to her neck. He teases her lips with his again-sticky fingers, and as she sucks at them hungrily, he begins to move inside her again and again. She’s pulling it from him, extracting and refracting his orgasm through the prism of her body. Blue is now a storm and rain and water. Blue is the sky and space and oceans of time—all the time in the world—flowing between and through them.
They lie together, the jar empty, their bodies spent.
Blue darkens and flattens to become slate grey.
He is surprised sometimes when he finds Martha naked next to him. He wonders how they came to this. What had altered in him to make this possible?
Blue is in another universe. Blue is rose-red.
Light passes through prisms and splits out the colours of the rainbow. Shadings. Refraction. Perspectives.
He kisses her as she drifts to sleep, their lips still sticky with the altered marmalade. Colour theory can wait until the morning.
Chronological: To 005: Outsides
Vertical: To 021: Friends
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
Well I do!!
Beta-ish comment:
("Haven't you had your fill for the day?" she’d asked as he pled with her.)
"pleaded" not "pled" *shudders quietly*
From:
no subject
*feeling the love*
From:
no subject