Title: Echoes of Salome
Word Count: 1630
Summary: The Doctor discovers that some sounds in the night can be more alluring than others.
All your Doctor Who are belong to us
Sadly, I own nothing related to Doctor Who. I am just playing around in their sandbox for a bit of fun.
Author Notes: Doing another cleaning of the fic on my harddrive, so I thought I'd post this. It was originally posted
for the prompt: 'The Doctor sees/hears one of his companions wanking.' Thanks to persiflage_1
for making it a bit more presentable for the masses.
Feedback is happy-making, so please leave a word or two if so inclined [even if I am a bit slack in responding, your comments always make my day]. Concrit [and any beta-ish comments] welcomed.====
It's her whimpers that the Doctor hears first – the sound of Martha's voice a sudden, stark contrast against the usual, near-silent murmur of his ship at such an hour.
Concerned for her welfare, he tosses aside the book he's reading – Homer's The Odyssey
, a perennial favourite of his – and then quickly makes his way down the long corridors of his ship toward her room to check on her. He thinks she's probably just having nightmares again. Traveling with him, they always do. It's a blessing and a curse of the life they lead, he supposes –
Or maybe, really, it's just a curse.
He reckons he'll just quietly sneak over to her bedside, as he usually does, and press his fingers delicately against her temples to softly pull such terrors from her thoughts, plucking them right from within her subconscious to assuage her. Admittedly, it always shakes him up a bit when he does, of course – his own thoughts becoming suddenly alight with a plethora of terrifying images, as they merge and often tangle
with hers – but with all he's seen, all he's known, he ultimately knows how to shake them off more easily than her.
(He's never quite sure if that should please him or not.)
As he walks along his ship's corridors, he stretches out his long fingers, working the tendons there. They feel tight and slightly cramped from being curled around his book for the last few hours, so he readies them for their duty to take away this evening's fright. Oddly enough, he finds himself looking forward to the extraction in a way, doing that little bit of good to help outweigh all the bad he has done. He even can't help the proud smirk that graces his features at the thought – a proud smirk that falls quickly, as soon as he hears more distinct
sounds coming from her room instead –
What had originally sounded like moans of despair to him, whimpers of anguish in the night, now sound more like moans of pleasure upon closer inspection. And, for a moment, he simply can't believe what he is hearing. It's as if his mind can't fully process what is happening before him and, really that is
all a bit odd, as a mind like his can process nearly anything. Or so he tells himself. Yes, he's always been good at that, always good at such games.
So there he is and he's playing the game again – now in the form of denying the sensuality of her moans as they deftly begin to creep under his skin, as he tries desperately to come up with other reasons for them instead (surely, he's just hearing things?). He denies it even as he approaches her room – closer and closer now
– and still denies it right up until he finally catches sight of her through the crack of her nearly closed door.
It's then he can no longer lie to himself about the situation at hand. The game is now hers. Point.
Before him, across the room, he sees Martha nude, reclining atop her covers, with one hand between her legs and the other caressing one of her breasts. As he stands there, now practically frozen to the spot, he watches her shifting her body slowly against the sheets, against her fingers, undulating almost as if dancing.
He can't help watching, staring
. It's a dangerous, seductive dance that he simply feels compelled to observe. The dance of Salome, perhaps,
he thinks, as his hands almost unconsciously fly up to grasp at the sides of his head, mustn't lose my head, mustn't lose my head…
He should turn around – he knows
this – make his way back down the corridor to his room. She'd never even know he'd been there,
he thinks. He'll just pretend it didn't happen. He's good at that – pretending about things – especially when it comes to her. But he can't. He's already trapped there, under her spell.
He reaches up to press his palm against the doorframe, steadying himself as his hearts begin to race and his cock begins to harden almost uncomfortably, pressing tighter and tighter against the cloth and zip of his trousers. He hopes that closing his eyes will help distract him from the scene before him, but it only proves futile as the sounds Martha's making only serve to conjure up even more in his imagination – him above her, him under her, his mouth between her legs…
He opens his eyes again and tries to shake his head of the images, thoughts he's had before certainly, late at night and alone, but never ever
let himself entertain for more than brief flickers of time. No, he doesn't want to lose himself to desire for her. He never does. He can't. That's what always gets me into trouble in relations with humans,
he thinks, admonishing himself, but the way her hips are moving in soft circles against her hand is causing him to, just maybe, rethink things a bit –Oh, how I'd love to feel her do that against me instead.
With a shuddering sigh, he lets his free hand slide slowly down his chest to dip into his shirt, popping a button or two off along the way. He lightly thumbs and pinches his nipple there as he continues to watch her, enjoying the resultant throb in his groin from the action and letting himself imagine that it's her
small fingers there instead.
Her movements speed up and he slips his hand out of the fold of his shirt and down to brush shaky fingertips across the bulge in his trousers. He hisses at the touch, aching for release, but his eyes remain locked on her as her moans grow and grow in intensity.
As he draws his hand again and again across himself, bent and hidden beneath tight cloth, he finds himself almost stumbling forward in pleasure, leaning more and more weight against his arm on the doorframe, until finally he watches her hips lift high in the air and her body shudder in orgasm –
He's so close to his own climax in that moment that he almost follows hers, but he doesn't allow himself. Not yet.
Watching her relax, he sees her now breathing more quietly and her muscles easing from tension, as she begins to lie back down against the sheets beneath her. It's then, as her body finally settles against the bed and her spell on him begins to soften and fade, that he turns around and tries to take the moment of reprieve to slip away quietly, back to his own room.
Despite his best intentions, though, the movement does not go unnoticed.
"Doctor?" he hears her ask from behind him, surprise evident in her voice, and for a moment he considers continuing to walk away, but something keeps him there.
His shoulders slump a bit and he turns back towards her, resigned as he slowly pushes the door open to see her fully. "Martha," he replies, simply, quietly.
She's sitting up in the bed now, her breasts heaving a bit and the thatch of hair between her legs glistening slightly, tantalizing him. He immediately looks down before him, ashamed for looking at her so openly while she's aware of him and finds himself surprised that she's not covering herself as she sits before him. He'd always thought of her as more timid, more demure than that. Then again, she was always surprising him.
"How…long have you been there?"
"Oh me? I was just passing through and all that," he offers, nervously shuffling his foot as he tries to resort to humour.
He hears her shift on the bed and watches the floor as her footfalls begin to approach him. Unsure of what her intention is, he dares a glance upward at her eyes, doing his best to not linger anywhere on her nudity as his vision passes over her skin as he does so. She seems like an interesting contrast of both confident and shy as she nears him, her body trembling slightly though her brow is furrowed in what seems like determination. And when she stops before him, her own gaze turns downward and he follows it, watching to see it rest just below his waistband.
He's honestly been so distracted by her catching him in such an intimate predicament, that he'd actually almost forgotten about his own arousal. He feels the heat of a blush rise quickly on his cheeks in response, even as a delicious tremor shudders through him, as her pointed gaze seems to almost caress him. "Martha, I can explain," he stammers, embarrassed.
She says nothing, only kneels down before him and reaches up slowly to curl fingers around two of his belt loops, tugging him forward a bit, closer to her. Part of him feels as if he should leave, right now
, but as he feels her knuckles brush lightly against his hardness and the cool air from the room on him as she deftly unzips his trousers and pulls him free, he knows he's not going anywhere anytime soon.
"Martha – " he whispers and even he
is not sure if it's a protest or a way of urging her on.
knows – understands him better than he understands himself (she always does) – as she only leans forward in response and wraps her tiny hand around him. She rubs the head of his cock against her full lips in soft circles, until finally opening her mouth to take him in and, in that moment, all he can see is a blinding flash behind his eyes, knowledge of him and her and her and him
throughout time and space, and he groans like an animal, primal
, lost to feeling –
And he is hers.