Title: A Stolen Gift
Word Count: 502
Spoilers: '42' [S3]
Summary: He takes her, takes her in ways he dare not when she's awake.
[a somnophilia porn]
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.Warning: Non-Con
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: ' Ten/Martha – Somnophilia
(with either one sleeping).' 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.====
He takes her, takes her in ways he dare not when she's awake.
His cock slips lightly against soft lips he will never bring himself to kiss (again). His fingers explore the wetness he always smells when she's around him, but dares not taste.
He worries that if she were to open her eyes right now, she would see too many dark and dangerous secrets of his – see the monster that he really is deep down, buried. But, even with such fears, there's still a part of him that also wishes she would
wake up, wishes she would open her eyes and pull him down by the hair to kiss him, to love him, to know him
He knows, though, that can never – ever
He spreads her legs slowly, every touch of her skin delicate and reverent, and shifts to his knees between them to worship her with his eyes and hands. Soon his probing fingers move aside to be replaced by his hard length, eager for entrance, eager for acceptance
into her own deep, dark secrets. It's almost too much. Almost.
He barely lets himself breathe as he slowly moves within her, afraid that if he does, she will wake and the spell will be broken. She's so tight that he feels as if she's touching every part of him, and perhaps she is, in a way, as the spindly arms of her very essence feel as if they are reaching deep into his very core, leaving him weak and needy before her.
He lets her warmth envelop him, lets the (stolen) gift of her intimate proximity assuage all his anxieties and begin the process of helping him forget the aching soreness of his throat (and hearts) from screaming to her again and again that day – "I'll save you" – when he wasn't even sure if he could.
Soft moans escape her lips, fluttering into the air, and he wonders what she's dreaming of and whether or not she's dreaming of him. For a minute, he lets himself smile imagining that he is the subject of her reverie. It's silly and simple, but he likes it. He can't give her a house, a child, and a garden; he can't give her chocolate-box romance and holding hands in the rain; but he can give her this – himself, quietly, in the night.
(And in some ways, maybe, that's the most intimate thing he can give.)
For a moment he finds it unbearably sad that she'll never know they've had this moment, but then he is distracted again (as always), only focusing of the swell of his climax instead as it rushes through him suddenly, pushing his release so deep inside her, as deep inside her as he can ever hope to touch without lingering too long.
And that is how always it is for him – he never dares linger, with anything, or anyone, for if he does, he might just lose himself to the maelstrom of it all.
And he can't have that.